Through Bonds Immortal
by Angel of Mystery-145
Summary: 19th century – Sworn enemies by blood through the ages, only through their love can they survive. To love him is to invite danger, to love her is to welcome his death… E/C, AU – a dark paranormal romance tale involving the characters of PotO
1. Chapter 1

_**In the darkness of his soul he has long dwelt, in a life lost and absent of meaning.**_

 _ **In the light of revelation she seeks to find purpose, in a world shrouded in fear.  
**_

 _ **Fate condemns this forbidden union -**_

 ** _but only with each other can they survive._ **

**.**

 **A/N: A gothic, supernatural tale of PotO, with a dark angsty Erik - And - (need I say it?) – the characters of PotO do not belong to me, but all else in this story does. This is a paranormal romance drama, with a dark Erik who will do some things the reader may not like (more understandable why as one reads) - Be ye warned. Some ALW, with a smidge of Kay, later in story...**

 **Christine, (as all my Christines are) is more spirited and bold - main characters will have different backstory/histories. It begins a year before the Phantom-happenings at the Opera House and continues thereon…rated M for all the usual reasons (sex, becoming more explicit as story progresses, adult situations, and some violence), and contains all the things my stories do (romance, drama, angst, suspense, etc).**

 **And now…**

* * *

 **I**

(1869)

.

Bonfires lay scattered and burned throughout the village in the chill night, but the darkness was prevalent, eating into one's soul.

Tongues of consuming flame lapped at dry tinder and the scarecrow-like effigy of the nearest conflagration, its head that of a pumpkin afire with dreadful eyes and leering mouth. Men parading as devils and ghouls rushed past in decadent celebration. Women in varying degrees of costume and dress danced with wild abandon to music so evocative it heated the blood. In darkened corners, couples writhed in shadowed embrace, causing the lone figure to avert her eyes awkwardly as she hurried past each in turn. Wine and ale flowed freely, while the pounding of distant drums and the mournful haunt of a reed instrument called out to her and echoed in the rapid pounding of her heart.

The night and its strangeness closed in on Christine, much as the costumed villagers did. In a tense sort of desperation she carefully picked her way through the crowds and searched the unfamiliar street.

She never would have attended this festival had she known she would be separated from her escort, wandering alone through a crazed and unholy crowd. Never in all her seventeen years had she witnessed such a lack of inhibition and excess of debauchery. The scandalous nature of the Paris Opera House was tame in comparison.

But this was _not_ home, she reminded herself. Never would it be. She had been forced to leave her position in the chorus and take up residence with her aloof great uncle on the outskirts of this remote village, once a part of fierce Scotland, but whose borders had shifted and now inhabited England. A world apart from the elegance of Paris.

Christine sidestepped a group of revelers dancing around the bonfire and walked directly into the path of a stout man in a red devil's mask. He slammed into her, nearly knocking her to the ground.

"Oh!"

Flailing for purchase, Christine's hand swung back and found contact where no one had stood before - a man's strong shoulder she reached up to grab at the same time the drunken invader staggered away, barking some insult unintelligible. Through the thick wool cape she fiercely gripped she felt the strength of lean muscle.

The stranger clasped her around the waist, preventing her fall. She wondered if she was again falling at the dizzying sensation when she turned her head to look up into eyes that glowed behind a sparkling ebony mask…eyes the hypnotic gold of candle flame, intense and burning, framed with lashes black as coal. The bonfire seemed to dance inside his eyes, twin flames that drew her to their warmth. His lips curved in a slow twisted smile, wicked enough to set her pulse racing.

"You must be more careful. It is a dangerous place for the unwary, with regard to those merrymakers who've not yet learned to hold their cups."

The inflection of his voice, a velvet purr, deep and seductive, turned her insides to molten wax. _God, had she ever heard such a voice…?_ He spoke with a cultured accent she couldn't place, neither English nor Scottish. His hair shone black as midnight, and what she could see of his skin beneath the mask was ghostly pale. His gloved hands at her waist burned through her thin costume of ivory tulle and silk. Even through layers of petticoats, his touch singed her.

Flustered at so intimate a contact, she pressed her palm against his solid bulk to push away. The action scalded her, not with heat but with cold, and she became powerless as she felt the chill of his skin beneath his fine silk clothing. Her eyes dropped to the middle of his torso. The sight of her small pale hands against his crimson waistcoat caused her face to flame. Grateful that her spangled mask likewise covered her forehead to dip beneath her cheeks, she broke free of his hold.

"Merci." She swallowed over a dry throat. "The street is so crowded. Impossible to traverse. The revelry has surpassed the dictates of propriety, I think …" She shook her head at her nervous prattle and attempted to regain her poise. "One cannot walk two feet ahead without being run down."

She spoke of propriety but ideas wholly inappropriate whirled through her mind, fed by what she'd seen this night. The riotous music, the stifling air - when had England ever felt so hot? - the close proximity of her mysterious dark savior whose eyes burned into her soul. All of it threatened to unbalance her a second time, to sweep her away to a moment forbidden. Her gaze slowly dropped and fastened to his mouth.

"You look lightheaded still. You must be parched in so heated an atmosphere." His smile suggested more than words conveyed. "I see you are without refreshment of the spirits that flow so freely. You should take some wine and find somewhere quiet to rest."

Did he mock her? Did he know his effect on her? Christine tried to discern his expression behind the mask, but his attention rested beneath her face at her throat, devoid of adornment. Her pulse there throbbed at his steady gaze, which then dipped lower to the pale half moons pushing up against her ruffled bodice with each uneven gasp of breath. Her skin grew flushed at his bold stare. Before she could think to move away or express offense, his eyes again flicked up to hers.

She forgot to scold, forgot to breathe. Their intensity called out to her … coaxing her to follow the example of the villagers and release all inhibition.

The festival faded into the background, the drums and pipes falling away. No thoughts stirred inside her head, no sound assaulted her ears. There was nothing except him…

This stranger she felt she had known since the beginning of time.

He held out his hand, his long fingers curling inward in a beguiling manner.

"Come, my Angel," he softly intoned.

A persuasive invitation, a silken command.

She felt powerless to resist, did not even want to, and lifted her hand inches from his own. Her fingertips grazed the palm of his glove, at last meeting it fully, the touch of his hand against hers further constricting breath and sending little shocks through every nerve ending. His eyes flared as if he, too, felt all she did. Slowly, he retreated back into the shadows, leading her by the hand as she matched each step to his.

She would follow him anywhere …

"Christine!"

The sound of her name being called scattered the thick dreamy haze from her mind. She blinked up at the stranger and snatched her hand from his light grip. Swinging around, she spotted her escort's fair head in the crowd.

"Raoul! I'm here." She waved him over to cover her embarrassment at what she'd almost done.

"I must go," she whispered and turned back to the stranger –

To find no one there.

Christine blinked in stunned confusion. How could he have vanished so quickly with nowhere to go?

A wall of stone with a shadowed door stood several feet behind the area to which he'd been leading her, the area to her right side closed off by another wall crawling with ivy. She looked past Raoul, into the crowd, but saw no sign of a cloaked man with raven-black hair pulled back in a queue who stood taller than most and would be easy to spot. Mystified, for he would have had to brush past her to find his way into the thick of the festival, she struggled to understand.

Had her sensitivity to the riotous celebration and talk of this legendary night conjured him up in her mind? Impossible. She had felt his eyes, his touch – burn to the very depths of her core. Strange, when he'd been so cold…

"Christine," Raoul reached her, out of breath, and took relieved hold of her shoulders. "Thank God. I was worried. It's too easy to lose one another in a crowd of this magnitude – every villager must be out celebrating tonight. The festival has become far too wild. I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to you."

She nodded vaguely, her mind elsewhere, her eyes looking past him to see if she could catch sight of her dark savior who had called her his angel.

"We must leave for Montmarte, the carriage awaits. Fearsome creatures of the night inhabit these lands, Christine. You must always be on your guard, and _never_ walk alone."

Christine barely refrained from rolling her eyes at his penchant for drama. "Please, Raoul, no more of such talk. It wasn't as if I intended to wander. I thought you were by my side and didn't realize you must have gone in the other direction."

All day and all night she had been informed of the legend of Samhain: when dead souls returned to former habitations and all manner of supernatural beings, dangerous and powerful, afflicted the living – the bonfires created to ward them off.

She linked her arm through his, grateful to have him again by her side.

"I would prefer …"

She questioned her hesitation. _What_ would she prefer? To search the streets for a masked man of questionable repute about whom she knew nothing? A man of mystery with whom she had been so unreserved? So ready and willing to do whatever he asked …

She averted her face so Raoul wouldn't see the blush that stained her cheeks. "Yes, yes you're right. Take me back to Montmarte."

It was this pagan festival, this night of wicked revelry that made her act so unlike herself.

But as the carriage moved along the rutted road toward the dense forest and she looked back over her shoulder at the multitude of fires burning across the dark landscape, she knew something within her had changed. An equinox of the soul, when good and evil converged for one blinding moment of one shadowed night…

And she sensed she would never be the same.

 **xXx**

"Fearsome creatures of the night, indeed!" Christine scoffed beneath her breath.

She sat at the long dining table with her great uncle, the Earl of Montmarte at the head and Raoul facing her. Next to him sat their cousin, Lucy, the earl's daughter, an odd girl a year behind Christine in age and a decade younger in mind. Lucy was more curvaceous where Christine was slender, but her cousin's shapely figure was all that proved she wasn't a child. Expressions she'd heard the maids use of Lucy being a bit tetched in the head were generous. With fair hair like Raoul, Lucy's a silvery-white, and ice blue eyes, she resembled a Dresden doll, much like one of many with which she played. Lucy was rarely quiet, but conversations held were mostly with herself or her little porcelain friends.

At the moment, Lucy ate her tartlet, softly humming off-key and staring at her plate, not one bit concerned by the morbid conversation, if she heard it at all.

Strange that Raoul added little to the discussion of a subject Christine knew intrigued him greatly.

"You mock what you don't know?" her taciturn uncle reproved, holding up his fork with the tines directed to Christine as he stressed his points. "Perhaps if you acquainted yourself with all that has occurred in outlying provinces this past year you wouldn't be so quick to cast aspersions on caveats that could well save your life. Men and women have gone missing in the night. Bodies were found, drained of blood…"

"My apologies … my lord," she added the title as an afterthought, not the least bit sorry for her feelings on the matter. His hearing must be as acute as a bat, since she'd barely muttered the scornful words. "But I hardly think village gossip is of any merit. Legends are stories of pretense and not worthy of serious consideration. There must be another explanation for what happened. Perhaps those missing ran off and don't wish to be found. As for the other," (Hardly a topic she enjoyed with her meal) "there are wild animals hereabouts surely—"

Her uncle cast her a withering glance that dripped with disapproval. Madame Giry, her instructor at the Opera House, often scolded Christine for being too outspoken.

She owed him no loyalty, had never even known of his existence until Mama Valerius died. Still, though he'd shown her no real welcome in the two weeks since she arrived, she did owe him respect. Her great uncle had opened his home to her, though she suspected Raoul urged the courtesy. He alone had expressed interest and delight to see her again. Their mothers had been first cousins, and his mother married a French count, partly what caused the rift of distance between them since childhood. At least Raoul didn't show any pompous airs with his status, still the boy she had known and loved...

Their great uncle on the other hand…

"I understand you lost your way the other night," he scolded. The crags near his thin mouth deepened into disapproving furrows above his white whiskered jaw. "A foolish choice to wander off in a festival of such a depraved nature, though with your unfortunate upbringing, I'm not surprised."

Her nerves prickled at his slur. "Nothing happened. I was unharmed."

"Raoul mentioned that a man pulled you with him, away from the crowd."

She turned her head in surprise toward her cousin, who displayed a sudden extreme interest in his raspberry tartlet. Raoul had seen? Why had he made no mention of it?

"One of many costumed merrymakers. He saved me from taking a spill."

"That Valerius woman never cautioned you about the dangers of gallivanting about unescorted?"

"I had an escort," she gritted through her teeth, ignoring the slight against Mama Valerius, a sweet elderly woman who'd taken care of her since her parents died. "Raoul was my escort. We were only separated for a time and quite by accident."

"He mentioned you seemed quite taken with the man."

She glared at Raoul, who kept his eyes averted to his plate. They would certainly have a talk at the first opportunity!

"I hardly know why he would arrive at such a conclusion." She picked at her food with her fork, not wishing to invite further ridicule by speaking of the encounter. "Raoul was too far away to see well, and the man left before he got there." At this her cousin lifted his head in surprise, as if to object. "It really was of no consequence," she continued, staring coldly at him. "I fail to see why he would even bring up such an insignificant matter."

"I'll decide if it is of consequence or not. Such an 'insignificant matter' could ruin your reputation. Running about in a scrap of costume in the midst of a pagan festival, your attributes on display for any passing rogue to sample – all of it behavior entirely inappropriate. Such shocking displays could ruin your chance of securing a wealthy husband."

Her cheeks burned with indignation. There. It was out. She had suspected as much. Why else would he send for a grand niece he had never met? Marital prospects for his only living child were slim to none, and so he hoped to control Christine's future, at no small benefit to his personal coffers, she was sure.

"I don't intend to marry," she declared.

He scoffed. "Nonsense. Of course you'll marry. I have a few worthy prospects in mind. At the ball I shall soon host, you will make their acquaintance then."

She set down her fork and calmly declared, "I have no interest in marrying _any_ man."

A half truth. She would be so inclined, but only if it led to love, the type of deep abiding love she'd been told her parents had. The ever-after kind of which fairytales were spun. Not a forced marriage to a stranger she might never truly know, or worse, come to loathe. Madame Giry and Mama Valerious both had spoken of the deep love her musician father and her gentle mother shared, one that providence determined could not separate them and had mercifully allowed them to partake in death as they had in life, though Christine knew little of how they died, only that it had been a horrible accident. Her parent's tale had become legend to the child she'd been, though her once endless questions about the death of her French father and his Swedish lady bride had been met with hushed reprimands and silent refusals to speak of such things.

He waved aside her declaration as trivial. "I have made my decision. As I am your present guardian, you have little say in the matter."

"I could leave," she argued, though she had nowhere to go, or more to the point, no money to take her there.

"Really? I understood that all of what Madame Valerius possessed went to pay off the creditors, including the sale of her cottage. Your mother was of course disinherited when she married your father, a penniless musician. And as I paid for your transport here, I doubt you have any funds of your own."

He ticked off the bald truths with all the aplomb of a bully who knew he had cowed a timid child. Yet she was not timid, and wouldn't give in so easily.

"So you see, your presence here is reliant solely on my goodwill," he continued, "and I should think you would be more cooperative to my wishes."

"Send me back to Paris then," she replied crossly. "I wouldn't mind." Indeed, she had enjoyed the dancing and bit parts of singing she had earned at the opera. She only wished she'd been more frugal with her financial earnings.

"The lifestyle of a thespian is corrupt and unsuitable!" he roared, banging his fist on the tablecloth and causing the silverware to jump. "I'll not have you tarnish the family name!"

Lucy stopped humming and whimpered. Raoul took a long pull of wine. Christine glared at the bully to her left.

"This far from Paris, it is doubtful anyone would know the depraved levels to which you have lowered yourself," he said, more calmly but no less stern. "You must never speak of your unfortunate past at the theater again. From this day forth, it doesn't exist."

Christine rose quickly from the table and threw her napkin to her plate. "If you'll excuse me, I find I have no appetite for dessert."

She spun on her heel and quit the dining chamber without being dismissed, knowing her behavior was hardly befitting a lady and not caring one whit. Until a fortnight ago, she had been quite content with being a lowly ballet rat and had no desire to learn the stodgy etiquette of the noblesse.

Too vexed to meekly withdraw to her sitting room to read, she wished for an outlet to vent her ire. As she drew abreast of the staircase, a faint scratching came on the wood from the other side of the door leading outside.

Warily she drew near.

A pitiful whimper accompanied the scratching, and she opened the door slightly.

Lucy's ragamuffin of a pup looked up at her and let out a yip of a bark. Shaggy, with brown fur, it wagged its tail, but remained on the stoop when she opened the door wider to let it in.

"So, you're going to be difficult too?" she said dryly, bending down to collect the mutt.

It evaded her grasp and ran back out into the dusk, stopping to look at her, then again scampered away.

Normally she would balk at chasing the contrary little beast, but a walk in the twilight might be exactly what she needed. She grabbed her cloak from the rack in the foyer and hurriedly left the manor.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: I do have one more chapter ready (all I've written of this story). If there is interest, I'll post it on Halloween. ;-) Tomorrow night, I'll post the next chapter of A Phantom's Blood...thank you for reading this far! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! :) ... And now…**

* * *

 **II**

.

Christine relied on her sense of hearing to track the rebellious pup, its occasional yips directing her in which way to go. Her mind wandered, as did her feet, taking her further into the gathering darkness. She considered going back for a lantern but might lose the pup, so trudged onward.

If not for Lucy's hysterics and tears when she did not have her pet near to sleep on her bed every night, Christine would surrender the chase. At least the moon would make an appearance tonight, having partially risen to light the way. What was that silly dog's name again? Oh yes…

"Topsy," she called out. "Come here this minute! Lucy will be missing you."

She had never owned a pet and had no idea how to manage one. Several more shouts for the stubborn mutt yielded nothing. She walked on, only just able to see. Much further in the distance than she'd last heard it, Christine made out faint yipping.

A light mist wet her face and she grimaced, pulling the hood of her cape over her head, her mind playing back her atrocious arrival to the estate a fortnight ago.

The carriage, when it finally rattled near to collect her at the station, came late. Upon her arrival, in the pouring rain, no less, she had entered Montmarte's wide doors with all the finesse of a drowned rat. Her uncle had not been present to greet her, and Raoul had been absent on an urgent matter. Through the manservant's haughty airs, Christine was made to feel every inch the poor relation seeking dubious shelter in one of the countryside's most notable manors, or so the driver told her, surpassed by no other except Castle Dragan on the other side of the forest.

This distant uncle who so unexpectedly materialized in her life had never even known her sainted parents. Christine never knew of his existence until the eve of Mama Valerius's funeral, when the invitation came from Montmarte. Shocked to learn she wasn't alone in the world, that she had a family, however removed and distantly related, Christine spent her last several francs on a proper outfit and answered the missive, but now wished she had torn it to smithereens and remained in training at the Opera House.

How dare Raoul inform their uncle of the bizarre incident at the festival, which Christine had repeatedly tried to push from her mind. Three nights had passed since the enigmatic stranger first haunted her thoughts. Most of the time, she could divert her attention to other things, but when she lay still and quiet in bed, eyes of seductive flame in a masked face filled the black scope of vision beneath her closed lids.

"Stop it," she ordered aloud, more to hear her voice in the deepening gloom and dispel the fear of the present unknown than for any true chastisement. "You are a reasonably intelligent female and not some besotted simpleton, so stop acting like one."

It unnerved her that in those scant minutes of their acquaintance, he had affected her more strongly than any man she'd known, though she had little on which to compare. Potential suitors, none of interest, had made their desires apparent once she'd gained a womanly figure, but under the vigilant eyes of both Mama Valerius and Madame Giry, few dared get too close. Those who managed to slip past her guardians and weren't dissuaded by Christine's sharp tongue, she ignored, hoping her indifference would deflate their egos enough to leave her alone to dance and sing as she wished. Her entire experience in such ventures amounted to an awkward peck on the lips from an undeterred boy, whom she'd grown bored to tears with after one chaperoned outing. And Raoul, who she'd given a kiss on the cheek for saving her scarf from the sea, but they'd been children then. Yet her cousin certainly had no romantic interest in her, not that she would encourage it if he did. He was a friend and nothing more, one with whom she was seriously peeved at the moment.

The damp air chilled her to the bone, and Christine pulled the edges of her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, deciding the pup was on its own. She hoped the little beast would return before Lucy readied for bed.

Eager for her own warm bed, Christine took first true notice of the area in the faint glow of the moon. So engrossed in recounting the past, she had failed to realize that nothing looked familiar.

Oh, bother! On top of everything else, she was now lost? She blew out an aggrieved breath, never having intended to wander so far.

Beyond the hills to her right, she spotted a grey shimmer, what must be the North Sea. A mist unfurled in the distance, closing in fast. The shadows of tall trees seemed more elongated, sentinel-like, surrounding her.

She realized she must be within a fringe of dark forest that rimmed Montmarte and acted as a border. _Dangers_ , he had said, and she had no wish to encounter anything even remotely intimidating, shuddering at the thought of bodies her uncle said had been drained of blood and of fearsome wild beasts that prowled the night. Monsters, he called them, once mortal, though she scorned such incredible tales. He sought to intimidate her at every turn, and she felt certain that's all tonight's little tale of horror had been. Another attempt to put her under his thumb and keep her meek and subservient to his wishes. She did not disbelieve that people had been killed in the forest, Raoul told her that, the tally five in three months. However, ferocious animals _did_ exist and she cursed her vexation that had led her on this fool's chase.

Hurriedly she turned to retrace her steps and came to a sudden halt. Confused, she stared.

A blanket of dull white fog had materialized out of nowhere and crept toward her, as far as the eye could see, blocking any view she might have of the manor.

She had never witnessed such dramatic changes in climate occur so rapidly, as she had in these lowlands of Berwickshire. A dark unease, a foreboding of something sinister heightened her senses, but she pushed those fears away. Like as not her mind wrapped around fanciful imaginings provoked by these gloomy environs and the dreadful dinner topic.

Indecisive between remaining trapped at the edge of the forest or groping blindly through unfamiliar terrain, Christine anxiously considered her options. She dared not enter the dark forest with its many hidden dangers. Nor did she fancy the idea of waiting for the fog to disperse. The choice was seized from her as the chill cloud drifted close, tendrils of cold mist wrapping around her, until she could see nothing but white.

A distant howl that definitely did not sound as if it came from a puppy caused her heart to flutter a frantic beat. She shivered as she slowly pushed through the dense curtain, hardly aware of where she was going, into the sea for all she knew. To remain immobile jarred her nerves far worse, and she walked with caution as the unrelenting fog swirled around her, enveloped her, closing her off to the world in a shroud of thick mist.

She drifted forward with hands outstretched, unable to see more than an arm's length before her, fingers reaching to fumble for any point of contact. Her hands collided with the trunk of a tree and she realized she was going in the wrong direction. She altered course behind to what surely must lead to the manor. After some time elapsed, the nuisance of being lost dissolved in the pit of her stomach and branched into cold, stark fear. She should have reached the manor by now, if she were going in the right direction. One misstep, and she could fall and become injured. Helpless. No one would know, having thought she'd retired to her room.

Blindly she pursued her indistinct course, the cold, cloying fog unlike any she'd known in Paris, a living, breathing thing, coiling around her. The hushed eeriness of her surroundings made her skin crawl, and she began softly to sing, a comfort since childhood for when she felt frightened. She nervously formed the words of an aria from the last opera while striking out blindly, her arms sweeping in front of her, over and over, until the rough bark of a tree abraded her fingers.

No! Not the forest again!

Suddenly she felt her wrist harshly grabbed, and her wavering song ended on a shocked little cry.

A dark, cloaked figure emerged from the mist that swirled away to let him pass. He drew closer, the cloud of fog again closing behind him.

Christine looked up with fearful amazement to see the masked stranger from the festival.

"You," she whispered.

As they had done before, his mysterious eyes pulled her in, as if lights glowed inside the golden orbs, though this time there was no bonfire as a reflection, only the mist. His riveting gaze captured her in his hold, as effective as the grip he had on her arm trapped between them.

She stood motionless, spellbound. Scant inches separated them, the chill radiating from his body impossibly warming to her flesh.

 _How could that even be?_

Shaken by the compulsive desire to draw closer, as though she had no freewill left, Christine blinked and retreated a step, all the distance allowed, his grip on her forearm secure. Though he again wore black leather gloves, the feel of his fingers through her sleeve was icy, and she released a little gasp. He continued to stare intensely into her eyes, his striking presence devoid of expression. She inhaled deeply, hoping to achieve some semblance of control.

"Monsieur, if you please…" She tried to pull her wrist free, but he held fast. She looked at him with a mix of confusion and uncertainty.

At her soft command, his eyes narrowed behind the mask he wore, as if perplexed. He had looked at her in such a manner that night too. It was another moment before he spoke.

"Did I not warn you to be careful?" he echoed his initial greeting from the festival. The timbre of his voice came as rich and deep as she remembered. "It is not safe for a woman to wander alone in darkness. The night is laden with dangers."

"Does your warning stem from caution or threat?" she challenged, struggling not to let him see her fear, though her heart pounded as if it might burst through her chest.

"Perhaps both."

His direct words stunned her, but rather than attempt to break away a second time, Christine stood utterly still. Despite his alarming answer, the oddest awareness swept through her that he would not harm her.

She had no basis for such a belief, it made no sense, especially after the manner in which he lured her to walk with him, away from the festival. Yet despite sound logic, (and she wondered how intact hers must be to think it), she knew it was so.

Quietly she gave voice to her thoughts.

"You won't harm me."

He tilted his head back, his scornful gaze sweeping her in a glance.

"Can you be so sure?"

She shook her head a little, dazed with a certainty she couldn't explain.

"Yes."

Slowly, she took in his form. Beneath a black fedora, his raven hair hung in damp lanks just touching the base of his neck. His mode of clothing, from the little she could see of it, befitted a gentleman. Oddly, he again wore a full mask, a different one that also dipped beneath his cheekbones. Of opaque black leather, this mask held no shine or ornamentation to it, as the spangled one from the festival did. His lips beneath were pulled thin, unsmiling, his lean jaw clenched as if displeased with her curious interest.

An elaborate gold and ruby clasp with a coat of arms held his heavy cloak together and hid much of his form, but standing so close she felt his barely leashed strength, certain his body was as commanding as the rest of him. A strange breathlessness came over her at such a wayward thought and mingled with shy apprehension as her gaze took in the wall of his chest before again lifting to his remarkable eyes.

He inhaled a sudden sharp breath, his eyes flaring then narrowing again.

"Why are you here?" he demanded.

Affronted by his imposing tone, she lifted her chin. "It is I, monsieur, who should ask why you trespass? I am a visitor to Montmarte, and am entitled to be on these grounds."

"You are no longer at Montmarte."

She blinked. "No longer at Montmarte?" she echoed faintly. Had she truly walked that great a distance?

He stared as if struggling with indecision, then moved his large hand to encircle her upper arm.

"Come!"

Turning with her in a different direction, he strode through the fog, forcing her obedience.

"Monsieur - wait!"

The suddenness of his act made her heart pound with uncertainty. His stride was graceful, long and sure, as if no mist impeded his vision, and she quickened her pace so as not to stumble, trying to shrug free of his fierce grasp.

"Wh-where are you taking me? _Who are you?_ " When he gave no response, she insisted, "Will you not answer –?"

He whirled to face her with a swiftness that trapped the breath in her throat. "Are you now frightened?" he asked, his whisper soft and silken, sounding almost pleased with the prospect.

Christine's lips parted, but she felt bereft of speech. Good sense demanded that she be more frightened than she was. Yet sense did not belong to this world of glowing mist, from which this darkly glorious stranger emerged, nor had logic ordered her steps at the festival when she disappeared into the shadows with him. The emotions that rendered her mute had little to do with terror but were just as troubling. She continued to look into his bottomless eyes that again drew her in …

As though he fought the impulse, his hand slowly, so slowly, lifted and his knuckles made featherlight contact beneath her ear. She inhaled a shaky breath as he traced a path of flame to her chin. The chill of his touch on her flesh magnified as his fingertips burned a path down to her throat resting in the hollow and against the pulse that beat wildly at its base above the ruffle of her neckline.

"You are wise to fear," he said softly, as if in endearment. "You have good reason. I am not what you think."

Her eyes fell shut, dazed by her body's strong reaction to this man, at the same time infuriated by his cat and mouse ploy. "You wish to intimidate? Is that your game, monsieur? To speak in threats and riddles? And is it also your intent to seduce me into submission?" She looked at him without flinching, forcing herself not to take a step back. "I am not afraid of you; you will not find me a docile lamb biddable to your will."

He shortly laughed at that, the tone of his amusement rich but with a dark, disturbing quality to it, as if at a private joke. She stood as tall and forbidding as her height allowed, diminutive when compared with his towering frame.

His lips lifted at the corners in a faint, bemused smile. "In time, perhaps, I shall satisfy you with what answers you seek.…" His gaze lowered to the front of her dress then flicked up to her eyes. "And more…"

His hypnotic eyes conveyed the bold promise of his words, and she swayed slightly toward him, her knees weak.

"You think too highly of yourself, monsieur."

Her words came husky, belying her response to his touch.

His smile was cynical as his hand spread over her throat. His fingertips brushed fire up her neck while his thumb did the same to the side opposite. His palm pressed in, searing her in a light, firm clasp, his thumb and forefinger resting at her jaw. "I assure you, my dear," he leaned in close to whisper, his breath fanning her ear, the only thing warm about him and sending shivers down her spine, "the time is nigh, when it will be _you_ who seeks _me_ _out_."

It wasn't arrogance that laced his tone, but a strange sense of unassuming certainty, as though he spoke of what they both knew to be true. She struggled against the tide of rich feeling his words and touch aroused.

"Your judgment is as flawed as your conduct. I would never seek out a rogue … what you most certainly are … as your actions clearly indicate."

Her words intended to discourage came as wisps of mere breath, again giving unwelcome credence to his claim. Incensed, she pulled swiftly free from his hand at her neck, but still he did not release her arm.

"We shall see."

His eyes burned into hers as he drew closer, his other arm twining about her waist and drawing her body back to him.

She trembled at the feel of his hard form against her softness, and felt almost grateful for his support. But instead of the kiss he seemed about to bestow, a kiss she turned her face aside to prevent, his head bent to her neck, his lips brushing the tender skin there.

Christine gasped in shock at the bold intimacy, his tongue surprisingly hot as it traced up beneath her ear, his cool lips suckling flesh. She could not prevent a moan and held tightly to his shoulders as unfamiliar heat rushed through her veins and pooled to her center.

Lightly he bit the cord of her neck with his blunt teeth, inciting a strange desperate need within her. She pulled him closer still, moving her head to let him do as he wished. His lips caressed her neck, and what felt like the prick of a needle lightly scraped the surface of her flesh, causing her to stiffen in shock. Instantly, his wet tongue laved away the faint sting, while her fingers dug into his shoulders…

Suddenly, violently, he put both hands to her arms pushing her away as he pulled back, upsetting her shaky balance.

Christine clung to his arms so as not to fall. He kept his eyes shut a long moment, his hands holding her from him, his face averted and hidden by his hat, and she studied him in anxious concern.

"Monsieur?" she asked softly.

Her query seemed to snap him out of whatever conflict held him bound. Again, with her one arm tightly grasped, he relentlessly pulled her with him through the mist.

Too shaken that she had encouraged such wicked attentions, too confused that he so rapidly ended them, she said nothing more and succumbed to his swift lead.

A short time later, they stepped out of the mist, and Christine saw the great brown edifice and two turrets of Montmarte a stone's throw away, yellow rectangles of light acting as a beacon. Relief vied for bewilderment in her mind. How had they reached the manor so quickly? Had she been walking in circles?

Her silent escort released his hold on her arm and looked at her. She was stunned by the sadness in his eyes.

"Christine! Are you out here?"

At her cousin's clear panic, she twisted around to call out, "I'm here!" Lowering her tone, she addressed her dark companion. "Would you care to come inside for some tea …?"

She shouldn't invite him in, as much as he made her forget herself in his presence, the things he _did_ to her - but courtesy demanded some token of recompense for rescuing her from an even more dangerous fate than at the festival. And she wanted to know more about him and what had put that sorrow into his eyes.

When he gave no response, she turned to look at him as she spoke. "I should think Raoul would …" Her words trailed off, her eyes widening. "… not mind," she whispered to the emptiness behind her.

Her dark saviour had again vanished, without a sound, without a word.

With her eyes she searched the outskirts of fog but saw no trace of him. How could he have slipped away so quietly? As if the man himself was composed of mist and shadow and had blended back into his habitation.

"Christine!"

She felt hands at her shoulders pull her around and stared up into her cousin's relieved blue eyes.

"Raoul. Did you see …?" She turned to glance back into the fog.

"See what?"

"I … nothing."

To speak of her encounter might earn her another scolding, and oddly she really had no wish to share what happened. Nor did she wish to give more fuel for Raoul to use against her with their uncle.

"Come, you're shaking. A foolish thing it was, Christine, to go out in fog this thick. You could have been lost or hurt."

She refrained from telling him he was correct about one of those two fates.

"When I left there was no fog."

"In this part of the country, the weather can change at a moment's notice." Slipping a reassuring arm around her shoulders, he escorted her up the stairs to the manor. "Why in God's name did you come out here, when I told you never to walk alone at night?"

"Lucy's pup is loose. I was trying to find it."

He shook his head in aggravation. "There's no sense in warning you, is there? You never listen – always were one to do as you damn well pleased and hang the consequences."

They reached the door. He opened it for her then followed her inside.

"And you are still as blunt and bullying as ever. Nor has your language improved."

He chuckled and closed the door. "You'll find I still have that Van Helsing temper Mother passed on to me. So best not test it."

She scoffed. "As if I was ever afraid of you! You're not the only one to inherit the trait, you know."

"Maybe, but you should be more terrified than you are - of all those things that inhabit the night, not me," he added with a wink when she raised an imperious brow at him. "You've always been fearless, which, come to think of it might serve you well." A strange somberness came over him. "I have long wanted to discuss a matter with you, but I'm afraid it must wait. You look exhausted. Get some rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."

"Perhaps we will, perhaps we won't." She scowled at him. "I'm still upset with you."

"I'm sorry, Christine. Really I am. We'll talk tomorrow. I must go."

She watched him depart to the back of the manor where a door led to the stables, curious what business would take him out into the night. She disagreed with his character assessment. Never had she been what she would call fearless, but orphaned at such a young age, she had been forced to face and fight her fears or let them drown her.

Clasping her hand to the side of her neck, she recalled the feel of her dark saviour's mouth there, a wicked encounter on which she should not dwell. Her face grew hot and her pulse raced as she moved into the empty parlor to look out the window...

Nothing but fog.

Moving away from the glass, she dropped her hand from her neck, noting a flash of red as she lowered it.

A small smear of blood stained her fingertip.

 **xXx**

She was not like the others.

He had been stirred by her beauty and drawn to the young woman the moment he beheld her masked face wreathed by long masses of shining dark ringlets, and had followed her, unseen, at the festival of Samhain.

Unmasked, she was even more breathtaking than his mind envisioned.

Erik had come to the startling awareness that she was different from the rest when she bravely confronted him, even _quarreled_ with him. And, most disconcerting, she had been able to withstand his influence and break free of his control over her mind on both occasions he entered her presence.

Never had that happened before, and for that reason alone he had not slaked his wretched thirst, instead becoming her guide.

By the blood of his ancestors - her _guide_!

What absurd twist of fate had cast him into the role of her protector? If she had known the devil she'd clung to, she would have fled from him in abject terror. But instead, she calmly declared that he would never hurt her. And in speaking those quiet words, he felt as if a spell had been cast over him in that he no longer wanted to. She spoke to him as a man, without being compelled, which intrigued him as much as it mystified.

Why had she come? What purpose did she have for being at Montmarte? And who the devil was she?

He stood invisible within the fringes of thick mist and watched her look back in his direction, searching for him through the window.

Of more importance, what relation was she to _them_? A guest she had said, but of which member of the household?

The childlike Lucy, with her guileless blue eyes…? The foppish boy, who was proving to be more pest than foe…? Or the avaricious earl, searching for ways to increase his holdings now that he was in debt…?

Erik frowned. The French woman called Christine did not seem to fear him, did not appear frightened of anything or anyone, though he knew that to be untrue. He had seen her fear, but she possessed bravado, walking among drunken revelers, a lone wandering angel at a pagan festival. Walking in the thick forest in the dead of night in an even denser fog.

And that voice…her song had been shaky with trepidation but beautiful. Angelic even.

He dryly laughed – as if a demon would know an angel! However, music had become his refuge and sole companion, and he recognized true talent.

He could not deny nor comprehend the powerful bond he'd felt toward her, as he'd never felt with any woman through the centuries. From the moment he looked into her velvet brown eyes and experienced the spark of her warm touch he had merged with her into some unforeseen existence where they alone dwelt. With her, he felt he possessed a soul. She had actually _desired_ his touch …

And the company of the Vicomte, he recalled, grimly having noted her relief to see the de Chagny boy's approach on both occasions. Was this dark-haired beauty with the flawless skin soon to become that fool's bride?

Rage reared its monstrous head for an instant, bleak confusion following closely on its heels. He chuckled darkly. For what purpose should he care …?

Before he yielded to his pathetic wishes, he blended back into his world of mist.

He could never have what most men attained, a wife, children, a true home. Centuries of the Cel Tradat curse along with a face twisted from birth had stolen any normal existence from him. Erik had long accepted his wretched fate and had no wish to entertain these novel feelings. Feelings that urged his return to accept her invitation to tea and learn all he could about the fiery angel who now inhabited Montmarte.

No, he would not fall prey to the cutting bonds of hope again.

He drew a mantle of stony indifference around his heart to block out the pain of feeling and stalked away to resume the hunt. His ears and eyes sharply attuned to the darkness as a mournful howl broke the muffled silence. The distant sound of cursing and drunken laughter reached his ears. _Fearsome_ c _reatures of the night_ , he remembered the Vicomte telling her. _Beware._

His lips twisted in a cynical smile that slowly faded.

He should have taken her.

He could not fight what he was and would never be anything more than a monster.

He would find his way into Christine's presence again, at a time when the Vicomte could not interfere, and would take greater care to weave a spell of dark seduction. He had felt her complete surrender close at hand...

She would not be able to resist a third time.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: As I wrote this chapter, the song "The Mist" from the musical Dracula (which is part of what I'm doing right now for a Phantom vid) went through my mind, makes sense since I've been hearing it a kajillion times as I edit. ;-) Also, I forgot to say in the other chapter, but my Lucy is somewhat inspired/based on that Lucy, though this isn't a crossover of the Dracula story itself...**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :)** ** **Please note: (for future chapters especially) w** hile some of the legendary lore of the "haves and have nots" will be traditional, I'll be doing my own thing too. And now… **

* * *

**III**

.

The pane of glass reflected Christine's somber image, and she looked into it with idle curiosity.

The oval mirror in the carved gilt frame was old, the glass decades in age for certain, perhaps even a century or more – the pane used dark and murky, unlike those at the Opera House, or the looking glass that had belonged to Madame Valerius. Still, the mirror proved adequate enough to reveal Christine's features from the bust up and was the sole source of reflection provided her in the bedchamber she'd been given.

Standing alone in her shift and the corset a maid had earlier helped her lace, Christine ran her fingertips over the narrow red line alongside her neck, beneath her ear, where the dark stranger's mouth had boldly strayed. His mask must contain a sharp edge that had lightly split her skin, a minor wound, but on her lily-white neck the scratch stood out like a red flag.

Wishing to avoid bothersome questions that would necessitate another lie, she chose from her repertoire of four dresses, carefully selected from costume racks at the Opera House, a high-necked day dress of black silk and lace similar to Madame Giry's mourning style of fashion. A soft ruff of chiffon encircled the neck almost to her chin and a network of tiny scarlet flowers on a vine of emerald gave a smattering of colorful relief to the edging of the sleeves and hemline.

Earlier, a servant knocked on her door to relay the message that her presence was required in the earl's study.

A quarter of an hour after that, Christine stood in a fluster of dismay and disbelief before him, where he sat behind his desk and regarded her with his usual pompous disapproval.

"But, my lord – a ball? And so soon?"

"I spoke of it on previous occasions."

He plucked up a reed from a narrow jar of them, held it to the flame of a candle and lit his pipe - likely too stingy to strike a lucifer to spark each time he indulged in his habitual vice. Taking a few puffs, he leaned back in his chair and blew out a cloud of smoke that encircled her head and made her want to choke or quite possibly retch.

She waved her hand in front of her nose. He stared at her with amused arrogance.

"I informed you of my plans to find you a husband. What better time to begin than that of a _harvest_ ball?"

He chuckled at his poor joke, the sound gruff, as if laughter found it foreign to emit from his throat. Christine barely held her tongue from expressing her disgust - for him and for his plan.

She had no desire for a husband, not yet, and certainly did not wish one hand-picked by this horrid excuse for a relation.

"I would rather you didn't put yourself to the trouble," she said as politely as she could manage. "I don't want a ball."

"Oh, come now," he countered. "You're a child of the theater and well acquainted with dancing before an audience. Where is the difference?"

There was a world of difference! On stage, she was another character, lost among a host of other characters – all playing out a role. But a ball held in her honor would be focused on Christine Daaé alone, and she did not appreciate the unwanted attention. Despite that she had been raised a thespian she jealously guarded her privacy and often opted for solitude during cast parties, attending them briefly or not at all.

Her uncle cast his hypercritical gaze up and down her form. "I trust you have a more suitable gown to wear for the occasion than what I have seen since your arrival."

Christine saw her chance and took it. "I own no ball gown. They are far too expensive for a chorus girl's salary. All I brought with me is courtesy of the Opera." In that establishment, she would have borrowed the dress, and for the one ball she'd attended, in the New Year, she did. But this was not the Opera, and certainly no seamstress could fashion a gown in such a ridiculously short span of time. "If you must host a ball, then please extend the date. I should think a month would be sufficient."

She would speak with Raoul and convince him, plead if she must, to take her away from Montmarte and back to Paris long before that day arrived.

"The invitations were delivered two weeks ago…"

Two _weeks?_ She had only known about the wretched ball _for four days!_

He waved a careless hand. "Find a dress of Lucy's to wear – she certainly has a plentiful wardrobe of them."

 _"Lucy...?!"_ Christine replied in consternation. "She is at least a head shorter." Not to mention that she possessed more ample breasts, though Christine certainly made no mention of the fact. Where Christine was tall for a woman and slender, Lucy was well-rounded but still petite for her size.

Anything Lucy owned would be sadly deficient.

"Hire a seamstress to alter the dress."

"But – _four days_?! That hardly gives enough time for such an extensive makeover –"

"I have no interest in how women's affairs are accomplished. That is your concern. The ball begins at seven o'clock in the evening this Saturday. Do not be late. Oh…" He speared her with his frosty ice-blue eyes. "Through my late wife I learned the tricks women use to excuse themselves from tasks in which they have no wish to partake. If you should employ one of these tricks and plead a headache for example, be assured, I will give orders for the maids to drag you from your bed, dress you and escort you to the ball."

Such a hateful man! If only she had the means to hire a carriage to take her back to Paris, she would leave this very minute.

"Why is it so important – this ball?"

His brow arched high. "Are you really so daft? Have I not made myself clear?" he clicked his tongue in disapproval. "All the noblesse from the surrounding districts will attend to see what prize I have to offer. Word has spread of your arrival to Montmarte, I have seen to that, and it is by you I will replenish my fortune. An arrangement with a wealthy husband will ensure I gain what I want once I give to him what he expects in return...a suitable wife to bear him an heir." He looked her up and down. "You are comely of face and form, have all your teeth, and with the talent Raoul tells me you possess, are sure to fetch a promising catch - as long as you rein in that insolent tongue and curb that damnable high spirit before you get to the altar. After that, I don't care what you do." He took another few puffs of his pipe. "At the upcoming ball, you will sing for them…"

The hell she would! She clenched her hands into fists at her sides.

"If you force me to wed a man I don't want, I'll make certain you never receive a penny!"

Her low heated words failed to produce the angry doubt she expected. He laughed – actually _laughed_ – then sneered at her. "The monetary arrangement will be made with the gentleman who has the most to offer and will be handled _prior_ to the ceremony, signed by contract."

Then she was to be _sold_ to the highest bidder? Like a filly to be examined and bred, and indeed that was how he described her, his words hardly complimentary.

Having once heard a bit of how these things worked, when Meg indulged in a mild flirtation with a merchant's son, Christine breathed a trifle easier. What sane man would agree to such a codicil for a marriage agreement? Her uncle was a fool to think it – was not the bride's family expected to supply a dowry? Being poor, her uncle a miser, Christine felt she had nothing to fear.

She drew herself up and regarded him coolly. "Very well, as I clearly have no say in this, I will attend your ball."

"Of course," he said, as if there was no decision to be made. "Leave me now. I have work to be done." He speared her with another disapproving look. "And the next time I send for you, Miss, I expect you to arrive promptly, with none of your impudence."

Christine barely refrained from the insolent reply that burned hot on the tip of her tongue and allowed her displeasure to manifest in a sardonic curtsy to the despised lord of the manor. She then spun on her heel, not taking a breath until she was absent from the stifling room that reeked of his smelly cigar.

x

Halfway up the staircase, she heard her name, and looked to her right where her cousin stood in front of the parlor.

"Raoul." She felt a grain of relief to see a friendly face and managed a smile.

"I was just coming to find you. Are you ready to have that talk?"

Christine recalled the previous night and his mention of wanting to discuss a matter.

"Actually, I must speak with Lucy. Or at least try." She gave a doubtful grin. "Perhaps during luncheon?"

"This cannot be discussed over the crème _brûlée_. We will talk after the meal."

The gist of his words came light, though his tone was serious, and she tilted her head in confusion. "Is everything alright?"

"I would ask you the same. You seem troubled."

"I spoke to our uncle. A conversation that doesn't bear repeating. He is truly as obstinate as he is insufferable."

"Take heart, Lotte." His tone was sympathetic. "It will take some time to grow accustomed to the way of things here at Montmarte."

"I suppose." Though she doubted a month or even a year would alter her uncle's pitiless tactics to gain wealth. Catching sight of a servant walking along the upstairs corridor, Christine concluded their discussion. "I really must see to this – we'll talk after luncheon."

Christine caught up to the maid and relayed her uncle's orders to send for a seamstress. With that bothersome task behind her, she continued to Lucy's bedchamber, not surprised to find the girl inside.

Lucy's room was located at one end of the third floor landing, in the north turret, to be precise, and Christine felt as if she had entered a young girl's bedchamber. Dolls with china faces sat on a low table against a wall of white stone, and she noticed that the furnishings, of mauve, sky blue, forest green and silver, had been fashioned to fit flush against the round stone wall that made up the chamber.

Vivid tapestries of frolicking ponies and woodland animals playing with nymph-like creatures gave color to the walls, and the canopied bed was piled with cloth animals stuffed with cotton batting. Lucy sat on the cushioned window seat, her legs drawn up beside her like a little dove in a nest of jewel-toned pillows. With great interest, she looked out the pane of beveled glass, a flaxen-haired doll in her arms.

"Hello, Lucy." Christine smiled at her cousin who continued to stare out the window as if Christine wasn't there.

She sighed. "I'm sorry to bother you, but your father would like me to…" She could hardly say borrow, since the seamstress would need to make drastic alterations. "…take one of your gowns for my use. For the ball this Saturday. Is that alright with you?"

No answer came from the bench seat, not that Christine expected one.

"I'll just help myself then, shall I?"

She hesitated several seconds, vainly waiting for a response, then strode to the tall wardrobe.

Inside, an abundance of gowns and day dresses hung from a rack. Strange that the child had so many, when she never left the estate. If one kind thing could be said of the miserly earl, it was that he doted on his only daughter, and Christine missed having her Papa in her own life. Of course, giving Lucy whatever her heart desired could cause dire consequences, though so far as Christine could tell, spoiling her had not altered her personality, either to enhance or corrupt it.

Christine slid the dresses over the wooden dowel, to find one suitable. A silk cream and white lace dress looked sweet and childlike, but would never do for an evening event, the same could be said for the butter yellow chiffon. A black bombazine that never appeared worn hung next to that, a mourning dress. Had Lucy worn it once, to her mother's funeral?

Suppressing a little shiver, Christine thumbed through three more gowns before she found a deep mauve satin with ecru lace. The lower neckline and capped sleeves made it a lovely choice for formal evening wear, and she decided it would serve well.

Again looking toward Lucy, whose gaze remained riveted to the outdoors, Christine joined her at the window.

"I went to the ball once."

Christine nearly dropped the bundle of cool satin in her shock that Lucy actually addressed her.

"Really? When was this?" She looked at the gown in her hands. "Is this the dress you wore? It's very pretty. If you would rather I didn't wear it, I can find something else…"

Lucy's eyes glanced with indifference toward the dress then resumed their vigil toward a patch of trees that fringed the estate.

"I don't care," she whispered.

Christine's heart raced in a little burst of triumph to successfully make conversation with the girl - the first time since she had arrived to Montmarte when rational snatches of thought were exchanged between them.

Lucy began to hum an off-key ditty, and the fur pelt on the other side of her lifted its head. Not a pile of fur, a pet. Christine narrowed her eyes in annoyance at the rebellious pup that caused her to lose her way in a nocturnal fog.

The shaggy fur ball yawned in apathy and settled his chin back down on his paws.

"Will you be attending this ball, Lucy? I should like it if you were there."

Her cousin gave no response and Christine sighed, curiously looking out the window.

"What do you see out there?"

"Secrets…" Lucy said softly, and resumed to hum.

"Secrets?" Christine studied the fringe of thick forest. A fine white mist floated as wisps of veiling between the trunks of the trees and lower branches.

Unwanted, the face of the enigmatic masked stranger came to mind, with his burning golden eyes, and she shifted her feet uncomfortably.

"What kind of secrets?"

Lucy lifted her finger to her lips and slowly turned her head, flicking her ice-blue eyes up to Christine.

"Shhh…mustn't tell."

A frisson of unease traveled down her back like a slow droplet of icy water.

"Who told you these secrets?"

"The dark woodland fairies. They dance and play beautiful music."

Christine exhaled a long, soft breath, realizing that Lucy was again immersed in the world of one of her illogical fantasies. Did she ever leave them?

"Do you like to dance?"

Lucy barely nodded.

"Are you looking forward to dancing at the ball?"

Lucy's stare grew vacant, never leaving the pane of glass. Once more she began to hum in her eerie manner.

Realizing she would get no more communication from the girl, Christine moved to the doorway.

"Thank you for the dress," she said and turned one last time to glance toward the window seat, pitying the poor young woman there who'd so mercilessly had her life snatched from her. Christine wished she could find some tangible method to reach her cousin. For a slim moment, she thought she had breached that impasse and wished, albeit briefly, to enter whatever illusions of truth played out in Lucy's mind, to better understand her cousin.

But such wishes were futile – all wishes really. Christine had learned long ago that childish wishing failed to make her dreams, those reachable and far distant, come true.

Her dear Papa had been a dreamer, her memories of both parents a flimsy veil of fading images slowly blown into tatters of vague recollection as the years passed, and she clung to the few strands left, desperate not to lose what little remained of them. Two were still vivid to her – that of her papa playing his violin in their cottage by the sea, his sweet music blending with her mama's gentle voice. And at bedtime he would sit on her bed where she lay and tell her dark stories with frightful witches and ogres and other beasts - moralistic tales that almost always ended badly for the arrogant hero or erring heroine of the story, with a lesson to be learned on their road to repentance.

Even her most beloved tale she once believed so devoutly contained a dreadful clause: for her obsessive wish only to sing with supreme excellence, uncaring of all else, Little Lotte had needed to give her heart and soul over to the Angel of Music, sacrificing everything in life – her time, her home, even her family and friends, to be all that the Angel required of her. Her voice had been superior, but her life had been lonely as she lost touch with her loved ones. Though she did have her unseen Angel always to guide her...

Wishes were futile, even dangerous.

And so were farfetched tales destined never to come true.

 **xXx**

Luncheon was a simple and quiet affair. Her uncle did not appear, having business elsewhere in town, and Christine was thankful for the reprieve. Raoul was also strangely absent, and Lucy, although present, again inhabited her untold imaginings, leaving Christine virtually alone.

Left to her thoughts, she found them continually traveling on wayward paths within two separate nights and the daring of one mysterious stranger, whose name she still did not know. What was it about him that affected her so intimately? Her body, her heart…even her mind…and she took a sip of water to cool the flush that warmed her face, though she could do nothing about the abrupt quickening of her pulse.

Despite her hope for companionship to divert her from such unwanted imaginings, once Raoul finally arrived as she exited the dining chamber, Christine suddenly wished she could prolong the advent of their mysterious discussion. His eyes failed to sparkle as they often did, and his mouth was grim, causing her to dread what was coming.

Regardless, when he asked her to join him, she followed him to a small parlor in the east wing, rarely used, and took a seat in one of the chairs there, watching as he closed and locked the double doors.

 _Locked_ _?_

"Raoul..." She studied him in surprise. "What have you to say that requires such secrecy?"

Without responding he walked to a table by the wall where a bottle of Scotch sat next to a wooden container, a little larger than a jewelry box. He looked at both a moment then picked up the box.

"After Mother died, I found this."

He covered the distance between them and held out the carved box for her to take.

Christine looked between him and the box before accepting the container and setting it in her lap. "I don't understand. What is this?"

"Answers. To our family. To your destiny."

"My _destiny_?"

He expelled a heavy breath. "Did you know that before they married our fathers, your mother and my mother were once very close?"

"I've heard that cousins are often like that," Christine tried, feeling oddly as though she was being tested and her answers were being scrutinized. By the impatient shake of his head, she had given an improper response.

"They were given a mandate, if you will, passed down from their fathers and grandfathers, and they worked together to see it accomplished. Few outside the family knew of it – your father was one of those few, as was mine. Your mother…" His voice grew softer, "she died trying to see those expectations fulfilled."

A chill trembled through Christine's bones. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear the rest of what he had to say.

"I was told my parents died in an accident," she answered just as quietly. "You heard differently?"

Her parent's story had become legend to her, their timeless love and loyalty the pattern she wished to trace for her own life, alongside the man with whom she chose to spend it.

"Your mother died trying to protect your father."

"She - _what...?_ I... _protect_ _him_?"

At such an odd revelation her words came out jumbled.

Raoul nodded. "Due to what she was and what she was called to fight."

"I don't understand. You're not making any sense."

"No, I suppose not." Briefly he lowered his head and sighed. "What I'm about to tell you will sound…incredible. We – the children of our mothers – you and I – indeed, many of the Van Helsings, since our ancestor, Gabriel, in the 18th century, have been called to fight a very dark evil."

Christine felt as if Raoul had just invited her to live out one of her childhood stories of the North. Either that or her cousin had gone barmy.

"A dark evil?" She managed not to laugh outright at the ludicrous words upon seeing the grave look in his eyes.

Her mind went to those lewd stagehands and managers who often took a sly peek at unsuspecting dancers in a state of undress, and a tumble with the more brazen of the chorus girls – but she did not presume Raoul's explanation of dark evil had to do with the standard Opera House monkeyshines.

"And what, pray tell, is the source of this evil?"

He narrowed his eyes at her patronizing tone.

"Creatures that inhabit the night. Those about which you were warned on your arrival."

"I see." She shifted and smoothed her skirts. "Wolves then? Bears, wildcats…?"

"The creatures I speak of are not of this world, not as we know it. They have ceased to dwell on the earth as living beings and are now immortal, secretly hunting in the dead of night in their thirst for blood. _Mortal_ blood."

Speechless for a moment, she stared at him in annoyed disbelief. "Oh, Raoul. _Really_. This again? Uncle tried to frighten me at dinner with the morbid legend, but I don't scare easily. Nor do I care to hear such grim accounts a second time."

"It's no legend, Christine! I've seen them. I've _fought_ them."

"You expect me to believe such outlandish dark tales?" she scoffed. "Was it not you who convinced me that eggs came first - when they rained down like hail from the sky and the impact caused chickens to hatch from them?" She gave a little huff of disgust. "I am no longer so gullible."

"I was ten, you were five. We are no longer children, and this is serious…"

She watched him move toward the bottle of Scotch and pour himself a dram, his manner quite agitated. From what little she'd seen of him on her return, he was usually levelheaded, if somewhat high-strung. His evident upset gave her pause, more so that he mentioned to her a week ago that he didn't like the earl's Scotch, didn't touch the stuff, and preferred the sweet vintage of wines and after dinner brandy…clearly he felt troubled enough that he needed it.

He finished the snifter and set it down.

"You have been chosen, as have I, to protect humanity and rid the world of this evil."

"Is that all?" she said with wry humor.

By his irritated frown, he was not amused, and she decided to humor him this once.

"Very well. What are these nocturnal creatures that hunt blood called?"

"Gabriel Van Helsing wrote of them as vampires." At her sudden start, he lifted his brows in surprise. "You have heard of them?"

"Only from a novel that a friend in the chorus read." The spine-tingling horrors from within those pages that Meg shared with Christine last year had been enough to fabricate nightmares without the need to close her eyes. "A book of _fiction_. The tale wasn't real."

"I assure you, Christine, vampires are very real."

She rolled her eyes a little, certain now that he had revealed the name of said dark evil creature he was only pulling her leg. As if he read her mind, he walked to her chair and knelt, looking up into her eyes in solemn entreaty.

"I vow to you this is no jest."

His earnestness troubled her. Had her dear Raoul lost touch with reality, as their younger cousin Lucy had? Or _was_ this an extensive prank, like those of his boyhood?

"Tell me, then. Why do you believe we were chosen?"

"You and I were marked at birth."

"Marked?" she said a tad nervously.

He looked at her shoulder. "On your right arm, just beneath your shoulder, you bear a mark – a circle, with lines radiating from it, in what appears to be a sun."

She resisted putting her hand to her sleeve and the area mentioned. "A puckered bit of flesh. Probably burnt by accident when I was a child – likely from the glowing end of a cigar I brushed against or some such thing. I don't recall."

"But I _do recall_ the mark, Christine, having seen it in our youth – because I possess the same mark, and in the same place."

Christine fidgeted. "A birthmark, then. Passed down through our mothers. It's not so unusual."

"Actually, it is."

She sighed. "Fine then. And how did you come to believe all of this…" She refrained from adding the word "nonsense" though it could be nothing more.

"Through reading my mother's journal. Your mother also kept one. They are in the box you now hold, as well as an old journal I found from one of our ancestors. My mother had all three hidden away in her things."

Stunned, Christine stared at the lid of the closed box – both eager to know her sainted mother's writings were only the turn of a page away and fearful to discover Raoul's words were accurate – that her mother had actually written such impossible, frightful tales, believing them to be true.

She heard somewhere once that lunacy often ran within family bloodlines; the past few minutes in her cousin's company gave credence to that claim.

"Read their personal accounts. See what they have to say before making your decision."

"I have a decision?" she asked in surprise. "To do what?"

"To join in the fight, of course."

She let out a huff of disbelief at his emphatic reply.

"What if I don't want to?"

"To fight them is your destiny, Christine." He shook his head. "You cannot run from what you're meant to be, _what you are…_ "

"Even if I did believe you, I'm only a simple chorus girl who wishes to sing and dance in the opera! I have no desire to hunt down and slay legendary creatures…" who did not exist, she reminded herself and sighed. "I have no wish to be one of the chosen, like our mothers."

"They were not chosen." He glanced down at the box. "They were not marked."

"But – you said…" She halted, confused by his quiet words and flustered by her own foolishness for encouraging this conversation, which was moot in any case. They argued over a fantasy, whether fabricated as a foolish prank or living within his mind she had yet to decide, but found she had no desire to know. All she wanted was to leave the room and escape his words that brought such unrest …

She should just get up and walk out the door.

"The mark skips generations – it's in the journals. Once a generation dies out, the next receives the mark – but not all who fight are marked. And not all who are marked accept their destiny. Our great grandmother and her sister – our great aunt, in whose home we now dwell – I believe both were marked, but they chose not to accept the mandate given them. Our mothers fought because they felt it their duty – that someone of the bloodline must take up the sword and combat the oppressive evil. The plague wiped out many of our relations in Europe – to my knowledge, our immediate families are all that are left. Being Van Helsings, our mothers were trained for battle, but they didn't have the special skills that only the marked bear. My mother wrote that is what she thinks might have led to your mother's death, that she wasn't well-equipped with the agility and foresight needed…"

"Special skills?"

So much of what he said slipped like grains of sand through an hourglass - she felt barely aware of their passage. But those two words stood out.

"Intuition. Agility. Speed. The innate ability to hunt prey. As well as being highly skilled with weaponry once taught..."

"Enough, Raoul, please." She held up her hands as if to push him away then set the box on the floor and pushed herself up from the chair instead. "This is all highly … imaginative." She chose to be kind. "Really, you should pen your thoughts to paper and sell them to a publisher – but I've heard enough."

"At least promise to read the journals."

He stooped down to pick them up and offered the box to her a second time. Grudgingly she accepted it, the lure of her mother's words impossible to refuse, and held the box against her with her left arm.

"One more thing," he said, "Because of the recent attacks in our district, I wish to train you to protect yourself. I hope you'll agree to that, if nothing else."

" _Train_ me? You mean with a weapon?"

He nodded. "A sword, a dagger, whichever you prefer. It could prove beneficial should you find yourself out alone at night, in a fog, with no defense..."

Christine blushed at his pointed words, alluding to the two times he'd found her in such a state, and she almost smiled at the ludicrous idea of belting a sword to her skirts, wearing a scabbard hanging down her side as men did. Yet in thinking of the lewd Buquet brothers at the Opera and men like them, a dagger hidden away for defense did hold some appeal…

"Our uncle might have something to say about your plans. You do realize he intends to marry me off to a wealthy husband at the first opportunity that presents itself - with this wretched ball to help it along. He's made no mystery of the reason for my coming here."

He frowned as if the idea gave him no pleasure either.

"Perhaps I can persuade you to take me back to Paris?" she asked more softly, but by the stubborn look in his eyes she presumed her plea was futile.

"I'll speak with him and try to convince him to cease in his pursuit to see you wed, at the very least to delay it. It was I who initially persuaded him to send for you."

The news didn't surprise her; nor did she fail to note that he ignored her question.

"I see. So your reason for bringing me here was to enlist me in your crusade to oust the world of bloodthirsty monsters?"

He winced at her sarcasm.

"I don't blame you for doubting me, Christine. I was an incorrigible trickster in our childhood, though I vow to you on my mother's grave that every word I said today is true. Honestly, I understand your ridicule. It took me weeks to come to terms with all of what is in those journals. I wasn't an instant believer either."

"Hm." She gave a noncommittal reply. "Well, I should be going."

"Christine, tell no one of this. Even Uncle – I don't know if our aunt ever told him of the destiny she refused, but all of what I shared must remain secret. No one can know about you, about us – that we are the chosen for this important mission in our lifetime. To my knowledge, we are all that remains of the Van Helsings."

"Of course."

Who would believe such a bizarre tale anyhow? Well, except maybe Lucy…

"Christine," he said again, once she reached the door.

She turned in question – her hand swiftly flying up on instinct to catch the heavy column of metal he threw hard at her. She stared with stunned horror at the empty brass candlestick she now gripped tightly in her right fist.

"Special skills," Raoul remarked quietly.

It would not have struck her, only flown past her ear to smash against the door, but she was still outraged that he would enact such a reckless stunt. She threw the candlestick to the floor with a ringing clatter and shook her hand that badly stung.

"That _hurt_ , Raoul. Why would you do such a thing?"

"I apologize, but some things must be experienced to be believed."

Christine glared at him, his poor excuse barely tolerable. She spun on her heel, turned the key in the lock and hurriedly left the chamber.

 **xXx**

The remainder of the week Christine was kept busy with fittings from the harried seamstress and banal letters penned to Meg and Madame Giry, both missives devoid of the dark mysteries involving the countryside and those closer to home, at Montmarte. When she wasn't busy preparing for the unwelcome ball, she ruminated over her two encounters with the man in the mask.

Would he be there? Had he been issued an invitation? _Who_ was he? Surely he must be a local and therefore would be known…

Her silent questions went unanswered. She would not initiate a conversation with the earl to discover the man's identity, and lately avoided Raoul whenever possible. On those occasions she found herself in the same room with him, his riveting blue eyes always filled with his own unasked questions – had she read the accounts of their mothers? Would she join his preposterous crusade? Did she yet believe him…?

All to which she could only give an unqualified no.

She had stowed the box with the journals at the back of her wardrobe, leery of opening their leather-tooled covers, afraid of what she may find. More dreaded meanderings of (she couldn't even think the name without wincing at the insanity) _vampires?_ – proof that madness ran deep within her bloodline – _within her own mother_? She wasn't ready to learn that disheartening truth. One day, she would look through the pages that promised to shine harsh light in this preferred darkness; it was inevitable. The pull was too strong.

But not yet…

For tonight, it seemed, she must attend a ball.

She backed up, to better see her altered gown in the oval mirror, wishing for the magnificent one La Carlotta used in her dressing room at the Opera. As big and grand as a castle door…

She frowned. Even retreating until her spine met the wall, she could see only a little past her hips, and would have to trust the added satin flounce that gave a height of four additional inches was acceptable to the dress. At least the gown fit her form like a glove, the seamstress a decided miracle worker. Not that she truly cared how she appeared, taking no delight in being forced into this situation.

Yet she did feel a strange sort of…expectation. There was no other word for this sudden breathlessness that caused her heart to skip a mildly eager beat.

She pondered, as she had with alarming frequency these last days, if she would once more encounter her cryptic masked savior…then scolded herself that she did not care either way.

As she descended the twisting staircase, she felt eyes watch her, though the foyer was empty. Once her foot took the last stair, a man suddenly appeared by her side, and she turned in surprise.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: I know- bad me! A whole chapter without Erik in it! But I promise you'll see quite a lot of him in the next… ;-) Also, for those interested- next weekend, I'll be posting the intro chapter of my Jane Eyre/PotO story …**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews and continued interest! :) And now, a nice long chapter…**

* * *

 **IV**

At the sudden presence of another being, when she assumed herself alone in the foyer, Christine clapped her hand to her chest in shock, then rolled her eyes a little heavenward, upon seeing who it was.

"Heavens, Raoul, you startled me."

"It wasn't intentional. Though pardon me for saying so, but you have been rather skittish lately."

Christine scoffed. "Is it any wonder, what with the dark tales you and our uncle continually ply me with?"

"Those are not tales which prove true. We only wish to keep you informed. Speaking of which…"

Blast! Why had she introduced the detestable topic when she made a point of avoiding it all week?

"Have you given further thought to –?"

"No, Raoul, no." She broke into his sentence. "Let us not speak of anything that doesn't involve dancing or wine or music."

He sighed. "Very well, Christine. Tonight we shall concentrate on the ball alone. Uncle has asked that I come to collect you. The guests have already arrived. With that in mind…" He handed her a small booklet with a satin cord attached. "Your dance card, my dear."

My _what_?"

"Have you never been to a ball?" he asked with a surprised lift of his brow. "I would have thought, with you coming from training in the dance…"

"Yes, of course. Each New Year the Opera House holds one, usually a masquerade. This year, it was my first and only social gala to attend."

He took hold of her left wrist and began to tie the strange little booklet around the glove. "And did you not dance?"

"Of course."

"And how were the arrangements made?"

She stared at him in confusion and shook her head. "What exactly are you asking?"

"How did your gentleman partners make their introductions known?"

He finished the knot and she lifted her arm to look at the dangling booklet. It seemed rather awkward.

"It was a masked ball. They certainly didn't give names. Why is there also a stub of a pencil attached?"

"For your partners to enter their names in the booklet, so as to dance with you."

"You're making sport of me again, aren't you?" She regarded him with narrowed eyes. "I told you I'm not the gullible child I once was." He had even taken eggs from the hens' nests and arranged them on the ground, to convince her eggs rained down from the sky, horrid prankster that he'd been.

Her former playmate had the audacity to grin. "And I told you, I'm beyond the days of boyhood pranks. If you look inside the ballroom, you will see other ladies with the same booklets attached to their wrists."

Christine realized he was serious. "But why must it be accomplished in such a way? It seems so silly."

"It is rather outmoded. The balls I attended this spring did not play out in this fashion. I would venture a guess that our uncle has precise plans who shall dance with you. He instructed me to tell you to leave three lines blank. And I would ask that you include me for a dance as well."

"Of course," she said distantly, frowning at the thought of being spun around the dance floor by her uncle's choice of potential bridegrooms. She had planned to hide away in a forgotten corner somewhere after the compulsory introductions through which she must suffer.

Glaring at the despised little book, Christine had an idea. She plucked at the string Raoul had gallantly tied until it came loose.

"What are you doing?" he asked in confusion. "Is it too tight?"

"No, but this scheme of our uncle's makes it feel as if the walls are closing in on me…" Taking the stub of a pencil, she filled in all but four lines with phony names of characters from past operas. "There. At least I shall have some control over my evening."

He laughed. "Brava, Christine. I see you haven't lost that spark of spontaneity that always made you stand out among others."

Uncertain whether to be insulted or pleased, she watched as he filled his name onto the last blank space available, above a set of fictitious partners.

"Mine will be the last true dance, and hopefully the one that lingers in your memory."

There was something unsettling about the steady look in his blue eyes, the soft words themselves, and she quickly changed the direction of their conversation.

"I hope that isn't a warning that you will stomp on my feet, because as I seem to recall you have two left ones and were quite clumsy as a boy."

He regarded her in mild affront. "I'll have you know that I received high acclaim from my teacher, Madame Julliard, in my instruction on ballroom dancing."

"Hmm. We shall soon see…"

"Indeed we shall."

But first to follow through with her great uncle's plan of her introduction to the community – by showing off Christine's talent, in the hope of gaining interest from the wealthy eligible men of the surrounding districts.

Finding little to smile about, Christine entered the grand ballroom with Raoul, noting the earl motion for her to join him. The huge chamber was sparse by way of décor – her uncle had not opened his purse strings too wide for anything but necessities in the austere room. But at least he had not skimped on lighting - the entire chamber was abundant with tiny flames – from above, in the chandelier, and below in the brass sconces along the walls, as well as the myriad candelabrum that had been set on narrow tables against one side of the room. Two types of wine, sour punch, and sweetmeats were available, though Christine doubted her roiling stomach could manage any trifle offered.

She loved to sing, there was something fulfilling about opening her mouth and hearing the crystalline tones that came forth in such sweet melody. She wasn't vain or prideful, not really. She only thought what everyone else made a point to tell her. But as she stood at one end of the room with the musicians behind, and waited the brief interval for the earl's pithy introduction, Christine dreaded this moment that had swept upon her.

She feared her antagonism with the proceedings came out in her performance of a segment from a light operetta, though she managed to keep a smile attached to her face – a stringent rule taught her from the beginning of her training as a little ballet rat. As she sang, men continued to move about the room, approaching ladies, with the hope to add their names to the little booklets.

Judging from the faces alight with interest and the round of applause that followed her song, Christine's entrance into the small society of Berwickshire was a success. The crowd not as big or as grand as a Parisian audience, perhaps fifty in attendance, with nowhere near as many notable guests that filled the theater each night of the performances. Why, the king of France even had an exclusive royal box, when he and his entourage chose to visit! But she had never been required to meet any of them face to face and preferred it that way. Those of high standing in this community, to whom Christine would individually be introduced throughout the evening, was enough to make her head spin.

Once the completion of dance cards was accomplished – her great uncle commandeering Christine's booklet and filling lines she'd left blank with names, the musicians began the first of many waltzes to follow. The ball commenced, and Christine was presented to and claimed by the first of her uncle's choices – a young baron from a neighboring district. Tall, thin and stodgy, he barely looked at her as they woodenly danced, then stiffly he bowed once the song came to a close, and left.

His disinterest cheered her. Perhaps the evening wouldn't be so tiresome if it progressed this well. If no one showed any marked interest, the earl might give up his greedy scheme and send Christine back to Paris in his own carriage on the morrow.

The next two dances were to be claimed by M. Melot and M. Rodrigo, her fictional characters from two operas. She darted out of her great uncle's sight and took the time to refresh herself with a glass of wine and linger in the shadowed recess of an alcove. The fourth dance was then claimed by the second of her uncle's choices – Lord Lomax, a viscount with a little more meat on his bones than the last unwanted partner, but old enough to be her grandfather. At least he was pleasant with his words, though Christine prickled all over from his bold stare, similar to the lewd ones of the stagehands at the opera house. He couldn't seem to lift his eyes above the level of her bosom for long, and his hands had a tendency to stray. After the dance at last concluded, he lingered by her side like an irksome gnat. Twice she had to reprimand him – politely of course – with a gentle, cautionary word or a soft knock to his knuckles with her fan.

His attention was thankfully required elsewhere as a small group of gentlemen converged upon them, the subject veering to local news, and she took the first available moment to melt away from their circle.

She'd had enough of hearing about the attack of nocturnal beasts on the victimized citizens, and certainly had no desire to encounter either her great uncle or again fend off the attentions of Lord Lomax. A brief escape was in order. Her next several dances were filled with fabricated names, until the third unknown candidate for bridegroom appeared, then Raoul would have the last dance of actual flesh and blood men, the remainder allotted to her fictitious cast.

Knowing her presence wouldn't be required for some time, Christine slipped out to the terrace that lay wreathed in cooling shadow. She fanned her face briskly and inhaled a deep calming breath, then grew very still. A strange awareness tingled through her blood and made her heart beat a little faster, though a hasty glance around the wide enclosure assured her that she stood alone.

Ahead lay a garden of meticulously cut and patterned boxwood. A maze lay spread out before her – small but elaborate – and she thought how marvelous it would be to lose oneself within the verdant hedges until the ball's conclusion. Impossible, of course, if she did not wish to incur her uncle's wrath. Still, a momentary respite wasn't out of the question, and she had a little free time to wander the grounds, thanks to her clever manipulation of the silly dance booklet.

With a wary glance over her shoulder to the brightly lit ballroom, Christine hastened down the shadowed steps and toward the shielding labyrinth. She had planned to visit it by day, but never got the chance, always sidetracked somehow.

To her surprise, the walls within were composed of ivy-covered stone, the surrounding hedge by which she entered acting as a gateway. The walls of gray rock were old, soft and crumbling on the surface in places, much older than her uncle. So clearly he wasn't the one who ordered the maze's design, which made sense with his miserly nature. The brackets that held the torches were thick with rust though the torches themselves looked new. She guessed the stone maze must be centuries old, and she wondered who built it and why.

The path soon forked, a torch bracketed to a wall at each end giving light by which to see, an order of the earl's for the visiting guests, she presumed, since usually the maze stood dark each night. Feeling as if she had walked several hundred years into the past, she devised a story in her head of a maiden fleeing the castle under siege and hiding herself within the labyrinth, hoping her prince would come and find her.

Christine suppressed a giggle at her girlish foolishness and turned to the right, following a path that took her to the left, the fingers of one hand trailing the walls as she walked its narrow pathways, entranced in her magical, mythical kingdom. Another short walk took her a second time to the left, and soon the path branched off three ways. Instead of walking the long distance forward or left again, she turned right. The air was brisk but not frigidly cold, the night clear and the short grassy paths lit in a golden haze by the intermittent torches.

Despite her careful accounting of direction, Christine soon found herself adrift in the maze, uncertain of the way back to familiar turf.

x

"Oh, botheration."

She looked at the sky, wishing she could tell the way to go from what few stars were not covered by clouds. East, west, north, south – in this never-ending warren of walls it felt all jumbled up. Save for the fact that the moon now flickered in clouds to her right – where it had been when she first entered the maze. So it stood to reason, if she walked the opposite way, she would be walking toward the manor.

Like two children from a dark fairytale read to her as a child, she should have brought crumbs from the sweetmeats to find her way – though this was no forest, only a maze. And certainly not so big! At least there was no fog…

After coming to her third dead end, Christine whirled around to retrace her steps and try another path. She walked only a short distance, when the torch ahead flickered erratically, though there was no strong wind to disturb a flame so large – and surely the layout of stone walls should prevent such an occurrence.

Christine watched in confusion, her eyes going wide with shock when the fire blew out, casting her into a patch of darkness. Torchlight in the distance ahead made it possible to still see. Nonetheless she decided to change course, now leery of traveling down that path.

She turned and found her way blocked by the tall dark figure of a man.

Letting out a soft cry, she clasped her throat in alarm, then saw the glimpse of a mask where the distant light hit ebony against the bridge of his nose.

"You," she breathed, feeling lightheaded. She grabbed at the wall beside her for balance.

All week she had wondered if her man of mystery would attend the ball, since all those of merit were invited. When he made no appearance – with the ball more than halfway concluded – she supposed he had declined. To confront him so unexpectedly was disconcerting, to say the least.

"You gave me a fright," she accused. How had he moved so silently? She had not even heard the whisper of a blade of grass or the crunch of a pebble.

"My apologies. I seem to have mastered that skill."

Not understanding the sarcasm of his words, she pulled her hand away from the wall. To her consternation the dance booklet snagged in the twigs of dense ivy, and she snapped her wrist back with impatience. The wretched little book broke from its slender tie, fluttering to the ground between them.

Before she could retrieve it, he bent and held the booklet between his long fingers and thumb. Again he wore snug leather gloves that were black, like his mask.

She held her hand out, but he ignored her silent request.

"Monsieur, if you please…"

He straightened to stand. "Again, I find you wandering lost in the darkness. You do not heed well to warning."

"I am only taking a stroll in the night air," Christine said, slightly perturbed by his choice of words. She wasn't lost – not in the true sense of the word – she would have found her way back, eventually. And he had no right to treat her like a disobedient child.

"Alone?"

"I prefer the solitude." She realized she was being rude, but couldn't seem to help herself. "I have no wish to keep you, monsieur. I can find my way."

"Based on previous experience, I highly doubt that."

She bristled at his low words. "And if I should allow you to escort me back to the ball – once you have seen to the task – will you again disappear like some phantom in the night?"

He chuckled at her accusing words, though there was little amusement to the sound.

"If I should say no, do I have your consent?"

The words were stiffly polite, but did not fit. They sought permission, but he was clearly the one in charge. He did not seem the type to seek approval from anyone. She then recalled how at their last meeting his mouth and hands had so boldly touched her, how _she had allowed_ him to touch her, and her face warmed uncomfortably.

Despite their dim surroundings, his eyes strangely glowed, piercing golden orbs amidst the darkness of his mask… his mask.

"Why do you always wear a mask over your face?" she blurted without thinking.

The orbs narrowed to amber slits, but he gave no reply.

"Tonight's ball is no masquerade," she added nervously, now wishing she had held her tongue. "The guests are not in costume."

To her surprise, he opened the tiny booklet and scanned its pages, despite that they had next to nothing by way of light.

"M. Valentin…M. Faust…" His eyes flicked up to hers. "With dance partners such as these, it is no wonder that you fled to become lost in the maze."

She drew her brows together in chagrin. "I did not _flee_. You make me sound both foolish and helpless…"

He stepped closer, taking hold of her wrist, and she looked up at him in shock.

"And is this where I, as Mephistopheles, guide you away from the prison into which you have found yourself?"

She winced at his clear knowledge of Gounod's opera and his discovery of her little deception.

"So you call yourself a devil, monsieur? Is that supposed to reassure me to follow you through this maze?" She cleared her throat, resolved to cling to what speck of dignity remained. "I think, after recalling the liberties you took when last we met, I would be wise to turn my back on your offer of help and implore God in His heaven to save me."

Her masked invader chuckled lightly and slipped the booklet in her hand, giving a crisp bow. "If that is your wish, pray continue. However, be advised: while you do have a lovely voice, you are not fit to play the role of Marguerite."

All nervousness vanished at the outrage of his words, like a dousing of cold water. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth went slack in stunned offense. He whirled away, his cloak swishing with finality against her skirts and the walls of the narrow path.

Never, _never_ had she had anyone say anything derogatory about her singing when before an audience.

"You judge yourself worthy to be a critic of the opera, monsieur?"

He did not respond, and she hurried after him, catching up to his swift stride.

"Tell me – by what right do you speak to me of such things?"

"I have studied music and its composers for many years." He delivered the answer without looking at her over his shoulder.

"That may well be. But I was _trained_ in the theater since the age of seven, and by acclaimed instructors of the chorus."

"To sing?" he scoffed. "Clearly your teachers were deficient at their tasks."

She frowned. "And just what exactly is _wrong_ with my voice?"

"Where shall I begin?"

She blinked at his dry rejoinder. "What? I…How can you _say_ such a thing!" She spluttered the words and glared at his broad back. "While it's true I may be no prima donna, I've been told by _many_ admirers that I have a delightful voice, comparable to angels."

"Did I not say it was lovely in tone?" He spared her the briefest of disinterested glances.

"Then what is the problem?"

"In all honesty?"

"Of course."

"You do not round your vowels properly. Your carriage is preposterous for holding a note longer than a few paltry seconds. The lack of appropriate emotion you display is a deterrent to a satisfactory performance…"

And so it went. Christine blinked, her mouth working but no sound coming forth as he carelessly ticked off her flaws one by one. She was so addled by his criticisms that she did not realize they had left the strange labyrinth until she was suddenly aware that the music from the ballroom had grown louder.

"Delivered, with all expedience …" His words came tight and mocking, his lips twisting in the facsimile of a smile as he turned to her and swept his hand toward the manor in a graceful flourish. "... and safety. It seems even a devil can keep his promise."

She averted her eyes to the manor.

"You're upset," he guessed.

"Should I not be?" She did not fool herself that she was ready to step outside the chorus, perhaps never would excel beyond anything more than a living, dancing prop. And certainly she had not given her best performance for her uncle's guests. But to have it pointed out to her in such demeaning detail rattled everything she had previously believed of herself – more so, that she recognized some truth to his words, which conversely added salt to her wounded pride.

"I would have thought as an entertainer you are accustomed to criticism. You did ask for my honest opinion. Yet it was not my intent to cause offense. That I did is to my deep regret." He inclined his head in farewell. "I will leave you to your ball."

"No – wait!" she said as he turned away.

Christine suddenly felt small and petty. She had _asked_ for his honesty. Nor did she fail to note that his disparaging manipulations had led her trailing after him from the maze without her awareness. In truth, she supposed she had been lost and felt foolish for her behavior, wishing to extend some form of olive branch.

"Are you not coming inside?"

"I think it unwise."

She shook her head. "Surely you were invited? I thought all who live in the vicinity and outside its borders were invited…" When he gave no answer, she insisted, "Then **I** will invite you."

He gave no response, and she looked at his unyielding back in hurt confusion.

"So instead you will once again disappear into the mist, like some phantom in the night – and without even telling me your name?"

The thought that he might leave unsettled her more than their previous conversation did.

"I never have cared for social activities," he quietly admitted.

"Yet you are here. You _did_ come to the ball."

"A rash decision."

"You don't strike me as a man who acts impulsively."

He turned then to look at her.

"An odd statement, when you consider how we met."

"No, not really." She looked into his eyes intently. "Even then, it seemed somehow…planned."

 **xXx**

Erik curiously studied the young woman who spoke as if she knew him. Had that been true, she would not be standing there, regarding him so calmly. Exquisite in a flounced silk ball gown that shimmered like lavender moonlight, with her ringlets of hair swept up in a becoming style to fall over one shoulder, Christine reminded him of an angelic caste of nighttime goddess. Her inquisitive eyes sparkled like the brightest of stars in a midnight sky, while her flawless face glowed with a sweet innocence almost painful to behold.

He should not be here, in her presence, a demon consorting with an angel.

What meager conscience he could yet claim urged him to leave, but the darker side of his nature persisted, making him wish to linger in her company a little while longer, to converse and know her better…

A predilection with which he was not at all familiar.

"Christine – are you out here?"

Confound that blasted boy's interruption, the third time the Vicomte had disturbed their meeting! Had he nothing better to do than to trot after Christine like an abandoned puppy?

"Faust and his associates are seeking to claim you," he said grimly. "I should go."

"Oh, but I … _would rather you stay._ "

Erik spun on his heel and strode away before she could finish her reply, though his acute hearing picked up her last whispered words. Words she did not mean for him to hear...

He continued his steady pace.

Curiosity and the desire to see her had impelled him to take the little-used path through the forest and attend this arcane gathering, though he had not associated with a crowd of this volume for many years. Decades, in fact. Coming tonight had been an error in judgment, to approach her so unobtrusively, as a man to a woman. He was no normal man, a wretched fact that presented continual reminders.

Yet no matter his determination to leave, some unnatural force beyond his control, some intrinsic need to be with her, had him halt and look over his shoulder before he could slip into his protective well of darkness.

When first he glimpsed her from where he stood on the shadowed terrace and heard her sing, Erik had held back from the revelry, hidden. He had watched her being whirled about by two inferior mortals, his shrewd eyes following her over the dance floor and noting her distress she worked hard to conceal. Later he observed her escape and hesitation, within feet of where he stood. The subtle fragrance of rosewater lured him with her sweetness, and he had followed her into the maze, to make his presence known and carry through with his plan at last.

The moment ideal, the temptation to make her his, to take all of what he desired had pressed him unmercifully. But one long look into her candid dark eyes and he had known – a third attempt to compel her into submission was not how he wanted Christine.

More than half a century had passed since he had fully taken a woman or felt the desire to do so. For blood and for pleasure, he had taken his fill, and afterward compelled her to forget. Long ago he dispensed with the empty practice, wearying of the need to compel a woman to bed him – the satisfaction it brought merely fleeting and never whole. He wanted a woman to accept him for what he was without the need to put her under his spell – an impossibility, of course, since he himself wasn't whole. Within and without, he would always remain a scarred and twisted individual: in more ways than one, a true monster. The bitter knowledge that he would never find love or acceptance led him to bar himself within walls of solitude long ago – until the night of Samhain, when he met an Angel in distress, and found he could no longer remain distant.

This strange unrest in the center of his being he had never before felt. His startling encounters with Christine yielded unique results, far different from anything experienced in his dark span of years on the earth. Meetings to be coveted. _This_ woman, to be prized. She spoke to him as she would to any man, absent of mystical coercion, and had wanted him near by her own choice, even inviting him to the ball, thinking he lacked an invitation…

She had reached the terrace, once more at the side of the intrusive boy. As if she felt Erik's stare, she too stopped and looked over her shoulder.

It was impossible for Christine to see him from so great a distance in such darkness, but owing to his traits as a creature of the night, just as his hearing was keen, his eyes were sharper than any mortal's. He could see her uncertainty and the curiosity that remained in her eyes, before the boy urged her forward and the pair disappeared into the ballroom.

And still he hesitated.

He had withheld his name from her for no particular reason, taking mild enjoyment from the game. After eternal years, the need to invent light, meaningless diversions helped to break the monotony.

Of course, she had asked about his mask. Everyone did, or if they did not dare utter the words, they stared with blunt rudeness that their drawing room manners forbade. The hypocrisy disgusted him. He had endured lifetimes to achieve the ability to overcome mankind's adverse reactions to his appearance and control his vulnerability, pain, and rage. Though the ill-favored who inadvertently saw beyond the molded casing never lived to tell the tale, few that their number were.

She had been curious, but not insistent on knowing. She had been vexed with him, but did not fear his presence. And tonight he had glimpsed within her searching soul the same indefinable need that had brought him to seek her out. Despite the ramifications it would surely entail, Erik made a decision and took the path leading up to the manor and the woman inside.

Christine was different…

And he must know why.

 **xXx**

The moment Raoul left her side to get her a glass of punch, Christine felt herself harshly grabbed above the elbow. She turned in shock, attempting to snatch her arm away.

The earl glared at her. "Where have you been?"

"Outside for some air – it's quite stifling in here."

"Lord Bisby has been seeking you out to claim his dance." He applied pressure with his fingers, and Christine winced, certain bruises would form beneath the glove. "It will not bode well if you offend our guests by shirking your duty to them…Ah, Lord Bisby!" His tone and expression instantly dripped honey as a man with a slight paunch and greying dark hair walked up beside them. "I have found my grandniece. She hopes that you can forgive her oversight and accept this next dance as yours."

Christine bristled but said nothing, apparently not trusted to speak for herself. She managed a false smile toward the noble who eyed her with pompous arrogance.

"Yes, well, perhaps this once." His hand moved to the middle of her spine, and she forced herself not to fidget away from his touch as he led her to the dance floor. His eyes were blue, like ice, and froze shards through her.

He made no attempt at conversation, clearly still provoked by her earlier absence. When the dance at last concluded, he escorted her back to the fringes and stiffly bowed. Before she could collect a breath, Raoul took her hand and spun her toward the floor.

"I trust you won't mind if I claim the dance of one of your pretenders, since my own was seized by the temperamental lord."

Christine giggled, her cousin's light repartee coupled with the welcome knowledge that the ball would soon end putting her at ease for the first time that evening.

Raoul led her into a breezy waltz, while her mind faithlessly returned to the mysterious man she had left behind near the maze…

x

They had barely begun to dance, when the candles all around flickered as if by a sudden soft wind. A stir filtered through the crowd, slowly, then with more momentum, several of the dancing couples slowing their steps or ceasing with them altogether to look toward the terrace doors on the north wall. Ladies whispered to their companions, their expressions full of question and shock, while the gentlemen stood, anxious and at a loss, as if uncertain what to do.

"What is happening?" Christine directed the low words to Raoul as she observed the gawking guests, then noticed her cousin's own frozen expression. She moved her hand from his shoulder to turn and see what caused the quiet commotion.

The sight of the newcomer who stood just inside the terrace doors made Christine gape in stunned amazement. The night had been dark and far too stingy in revealing details, the candlelight again struggling to steady itself and redeem the oversight.

Dressed in elegant black, it was the predominant color of his evening attire, save for the crimson-threaded waistcoat and dark purple lining of his black cloak. Standing taller than most, his stance was that of a visiting king, regal, with an air of masculine grace that robbed Christine of steady breath. His dark hair was pulled back in a queue, as it had been the first time they met, bringing into prominence his strong shadowed jaw. But it was the mask he wore – black with dark red embroidery, to match his silk waistcoat – that proved the identity of the late arrival and encouraged Christine she would soon learn the name of her frequent savior.

For whatever reason, he had changed his mind, and Christine felt exceedingly glad. It was then she realized that his eyes of hypnotic gold looked directly at her, and once more she felt drawn by their beauty.

The musicians brought the song to a close, though it failed to matter since most of the couples had long since stopped dancing.

"Christine?" Raoul's low voice held a hint of impatience, as did his tug on her wrist, but she could not look away from her familiar stranger. Afraid if she did, he might vanish into thin air.

"Who is that?" she whispered to Raoul.

Before he could reply, she watched her great uncle approach their newly arrived guest.

"Count cel Tradat, I presume," her uncle said, somewhat nervously. "I am Lord Beaumont, the Earl of Montmarte. I bid you welcome."

At the coveted revelation of the stranger's name, faint gasps of shock were heard all around the room.

"So, _that_ is the reclusive Count!" a woman whispered directly behind Christine. "Mother said he never leaves his castle. Not in the two years since he took up residence there from some far-distant land."

"Why ever not?" a second voice whispered.

"Have you no eyes in your head? The mask. It's rumored he hides a devil's face."

"Oh pish. The man is as beautiful as an angel," another woman murmured. "Why, look how his eyes seem to glow!"

"Hush, Eliza. I want to hear what he has to say."

So did Christine, and slowly she began to walk past the huddles of couples, forgetting her own dance partner. Raoul again grabbed her wrist.

"Christine - where are you going?"

She blinked, barely taking her eyes off the striking Count to address Raoul. "Uncle will wish for me to present myself," she quietly explained, for once thankful of the fact.

Raoul did not further detain her, though he did walk with her. The earl looked their way with a germ of approval.

"Ah, my grandnephew and grandniece. My Lord, Count cel Tradat, may I present to you the Viscount Raoul de Chagny and Miss Christine Daaé , recently arrived from France."

The Count barely acknowledged the introduction with an absent nod, his eyes never leaving Christine.

"Miss Daaé …" He took the hand she was barely aware she held up to him, his gloved fingers curling beneath hers. A spark ignited with their touch, like a flint had been struck. He bowed low with masculine grace, though did not press his lips to her glove, as had other men, and she found herself missing the token greeting. "It is a pleasure."

Christine slightly curtsied. "I am delighted to meet you at last, _Count cel Tradat,_ " she replied lightly, with a triumphant emphasis on his name, and detected a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

She failed to notice Raoul's frown and narrow-eyed inspection of the Count. Nor did she see her great uncle's shrewd expression as he watched the introduction.

The earl nodded in signal to a servant, who hurried forward, hands uplifted to take the Count's cloak. "If I may, sir..." Their masked guest delivered a stern look toward the footman and barely shook his head. He fell back in some confusion.

"I cannot stay," the Count explained with a succinct politeness that seemed forced. "I thought only to come and make my felicitations."

"Surely now that you are here, you will stay for some refreshment?" her great uncle persuaded. "Or, if you prefer, my grandniece has the next dance available and would be most happy to share it with you."

Raoul opened his mouth to object, but was quelled by a look from their uncle. The Count must be wealthy indeed for the earl to pander so avidly to his comforts. Christine should be horrified and angered by his embarrassing manipulations, but could only feel a breathless anticipation for the Count to accept.

"I tend not to participate in these amusements…"

Christine's eyes flicked up to his, unable to hide her disappointment. He held her gaze for an anxious breath.

"But tonight I will make the exception."

The musicians struck up their instruments in a slow waltz, and the Count offered his hand to Christine. She took it, gliding with him to the floor, unaware of the many curious eyes that watched. She could think of nothing but the man who stepped so close, his eyes possessing hers.

For all his protestations of not indulging in the recreation, he danced with an expertise not found in many men, his grace and skill unparalleled. Christine had no need to make a point to follow his lead, a bond of the soul pulling them together so that they moved, breathed, and thought as one. She could think of no other way to describe their contact, though she could scarcely think at all.

His long, lean body emitted a strange chill as on previous encounters, despite the heavy cloak he wore. However, the cold did not repel Christine; it only made her wish to move closer, with the hope to warm him. Indeed, the strange growing heat that seeped into her veins from the moment her masked savior entered the ballroom surely would serve to provide enough warmth for them both.

They danced with all propriety, the required distance between their bodies observed, one of his hands clasping hers, the other resting at the bend of her waist…

Yet Christine felt utterly seduced. The soft fire in his eyes alone made her breathless, the look in them as though he wished to devour her.

With any other man, she would feel disgust or alarm, but with this man she did not consider his keen interest an affront. Not when she felt the same intense awareness, ever since the night of the festival, when first she locked eyes with him…

The song ended much sooner than she would have wished. They stood still a moment, neither breaking contact.

"It has been an honor," he told her, his deep rich voice stirring her senses.

"Indeed it has, my lord."

His lips flickered at the corners, but what he would have said next was lost as Raoul approached and the musicians went into a faster Viennese waltz. He looked pointedly at Christine.

"I believe this dance is mine… Sir." Raoul inclined his head stiffly toward the Count in clear dismissal.

Christine was given no opportunity to decline or counter his claim.

With a brisk nod to Raoul, the Count released her. He courteously bowed to Christine, one arm bent behind his back, the other crossed at his waist, then departed. She turned her head to see where he had gone, but Raoul did not allow her the curiosity, taking firm hold of her hands for the next waltz.

"Raoul – was that really necessary?" she scolded as they glided along the dance floor.

"You promised me a dance, and we were interrupted."

"You were quite rude."

"Yet the Count's arrival through the back door at the midnight hour – with no previous acceptance to our sent invitation – you don't call that impolite?"

Christine shook her head, not understanding his thinly veiled antagonism, which felt out of place.

"He is _our guest_. Uncle hosted this ball to introduce me to the locals. Would you have me be rude to them and achieve the reputation of a snob?"

He sighed, looking chastened. "No, of course not. Forgive me."

She gave a slight nod, wishing it had all gone differently. Wishing to find the Count and apologize for her cousin's sour behavior…

"Now then, don't pout, Lotte. Let us think more agreeable thoughts – I believe you requested only dancing, wine, and music?"

By waltz's end, he managed to entice her smile. But her improved mood began to fray at the edges as she searched the ballroom for any sign of Count cel Tradat. Discreetly she asked a few guests if they'd seen him, but none could give her the answer she desired.

Again, he had slipped away without a word, like a ghost in the night.

 **xXx**

With the ball at last over, Christine retired to her room. The servant Daisy appeared to help remove the cumbersome gown and unlace her corset. She took down her hair and Daisy began brushing it out.

Christine watched the young servant in the mirror. Short, with fair hair and cheeks as round and rosy as apples, she didn't look much older than Lucy.

"Daisy, how did you come to work at Montmarte?"

"My mum's the cook here. She asked the master, and he gave me this position."

"Have you lived here long?"

"Oh, yes, mistress. Long as I can remember."

"What do you know about the Count cel Tradat?"

The brush stilled against Christine's hair before Daisy resumed the slow strokes to rid it of tangles.

"Isn't much to know really. He lives at Castle Dragan, on the other side of the forest. Me mum said the place was falling to ruin before he took up there. Don't know much else, 'cept that he don't step foot out of doors, not that nobody's noticed – 'til tonight. Like to soil me britches when he showed up so abrupt-like and looking like the devil hisself in that cloak and black mask. Oh, sorry. Mum says I should mind me tongue better."

Christine suppressed a smile. She certainly had heard far worse language from the crew and cast at the Opera House. With her hope of discovering something unknown about the Count a failure, she reassured Daisy and dismissed her for the evening.

Once the maid left, Christine moved to the door and turned the key, as she had done each night of her stay in this gloomy habitation. Yet while she locked her door to keep potential dangers at bay, still distrustful of most who resided at Montmarte, she preferred to sleep with the balcony doors open while the chill weather was still mild enough to allow it.

Slipping her wrapper over her chemise, she moved to the balcony's edge and leaned her arms against the stone rail, allowing the cool breeze to caress her heated cheeks in a whisper of comfort.

Her eyes searched the grounds two stories beneath, then the heavens far above, noting that ashen clouds had scudded over the stars and masked the moon, casting the lawn in deep shadow once more. The encroaching darkness veiled the earth from sight, until the moon again sailed free in nature's tug of war struggle with light versus dark. The dense clouds and waxing moon seized brief ownership of the sky in turn, before losing to the other in recurrent waves, causing the landscape to shimmer in pale silver and dark silhouette. It was clear the moon's battle would soon be entirely lost to the darkness.

"Why do you appear and disappear so often? At the festival. In the maze. At the ball… _Who are you_?"

Her low, plaintive words slipped into the night. She wondered why three times he had sought her out and just as often mysteriously left…but most of all she wondered if she would ever see him again.

Christine turned back to her bedchamber in mild frustration, her attention drawn to the dressing table. Every one of the five flames of candles there flickered in an erratic dance to survive – then just as suddenly met their death. Cast in sudden darkness, save for the fleeting glow of the inconstant moon behind her, Christine stood petrified, reminded of earlier, in the maze.

Her senses heightened, she realized she was no longer alone...

And feeling faint, she knew who stood with her.

Leather-clad hands cupped her shoulders. Her heart skipped an erratic beat as his cool lips barely touched the rim of her ear in a whispered breath of warmth -

"Do you really wish to know?"

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: trivia bit: "cel Tradat" is Romanian for The Betrayed (and the reason I chose this for a surname). ;-)  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Seemed fitting to work on another chapter of this for the season. ;-) And now…**

* * *

 **V**

.

In a chamber cloaked by the velvet darkness, with the moon a faint luminescence briefly touching the fringe of pale shadows, Christine's soul struggled for light…while a base part of her nature she once thought nonexistent succumbed to the dark.

His cool touch on her shoulders, with the warmth of his breath whispering against her ear cast a hazy film through her mind, and she struggled to make sense of his words -

 _Do you really wish to know?_

He must have heard her question on the balcony with regard to his identity, but now that her wish was at last being granted, she could articulate no words to give a reply.

"Because I will tell you…"

His quiet, steady voice was a trap, and she willingly allowed herself to be bound by its silken chords, nodding faintly at his words.

"Do you feel this, my dear, this fathomless pull that exists between us?"

His fingertips ghosted over the tops of her shoulders to their curves, barely tracing down her arms, and she shivered, her head falling softly back against his shoulder.

"I am the forbidden thoughts that fill your days…and that which your soul cries out for in the night…"

Christine's heart quickened at the echo of her feelings put into words.

" _Give yourself over to me…_ "

His demand came as a seductive caress, sweetly invading her soul. She shivered with heat as the length of his chill form pressed against her back; she could feel every smooth plane and lean muscle through the scant material of her chemise and wrapper. Her breathing grew labored at the sinful feel of him, at the feel of his desire that made her blush. One of his hands slid to just below her breasts, stroking along her stomach and clasping her hip, drawing her even closer to his hard body.

Christine whimpered softly at the flurry of confusing sensations he aroused. She should not be here with him like this, should not even entertain such a scandalous thought of where this shocking interlude might lead, and at last found her voice.

"My Lord Count, please I…"

He quietly chuckled.

"Erik."

"Wh-what?" She could barely follow anything save for his rousing touch on her quivering form.

His other hand slid beneath her jaw, his fingers slipping into the loose ringlets of her hair, and he turned her face toward him.

"To you, sweet Christine, I am Erik."

 _Erik…_

She lost all will as his mouth descended on hers. Feeling the cool press of his lips, the stirring heat of his breath, a surge of something wonderfully foreign and dangerously alluring swept through her blood. Barely cognizant of her actions, she craned her neck more fully to return the intimacy. Pressing her mouth to his in shy, reckless need, she lifted her hand to cradle his head.

At the brush of her fingers against his mask, he sharply pulled back. Christine made a soft sound of dismay at the back of her throat to lose his kiss that had barely begun. Her despairing groan ended on a delighted gasp as his mouth latched to the side of her neck, his tongue hot and tracing swirls of patterns along her flesh.

Her bones melted to liquid fire, a strange damp heat between her thighs that only he ever caused. His arm around her middle, his body against hers, was all that held her upright. With his other hand he pushed wrapper and chemise from her shoulder, his lips following the path he bared to whisper against her flesh. She felt powerless to stop him, was no longer sure if she wanted to or why she must.

He pushed her clothing further down her arm, exposing the upper globe of one breast. With the bold action, his fingertips brushed ever so lightly against the sensitive tip that strained against her thin chemise, his palm against her arm, his mouth brushing the curve of her bare shoulder.

Christine rasped an unsteady breath, sparks of fire surging through her blood. Her dark Count tightened his hold, almost painfully, his own breathing ragged. She wished to turn in his arms, to touch his face, to mindlessly lose body and soul in his daring seduction…

He went suddenly still, unnervingly so, causing her heart to beat with uncertainty and unease.

" _Erik_ …?"

x

The innocent whisper of his name on her lips was almost his undoing, but the Count held fast. His senses reeled in delight with the feel of her soft, warm body against the shell of his own...

…while his mind felt undone with the alarming discovery just made.

Maintaining what scant control he yet possessed, he groped for what little hope he could manage, that his sharp eyes for once had been mistaken.

The sudden wash of moonlight reviled him, illuminating her silken skin in a mocking sheen of white, and bringing into vivid relief the hated mark of the accursed sun upon her flesh.

No … bloody damnation –

 _NO!_

Erik stood on the brink of desolation, wavering on what course to take, suddenly indecisive of the path to take for the first time in his wretched existence. Had it been his father in his place, were the bastard still alive, she would not still be breathing. Yet for all the death he had borne in his unnatural reign upon the earth, Erik could not follow through with such a foul act, not against _this_ woman…not Christine. He struggled with what was expected, _what he must do_ _to survive_ , and slowly began to withdraw his arm from around her. She swayed; after his heavy seduction, could barely stand. With his entire body against hers, he felt her knees begin to give way, and again tightened his hold to prevent her fall.

He closed his eyes in resignation. There was little choice what must come next.

"My lord?"

"Shh," he whispered, his lips tenderly touching her ear one last time, "do not speak…"

He could not bear to hear the tender plea in her lovely voice. She turned her silken cheek against his neck, tearing a rift inside his empty soul. She was so lovely, an angelic goddess, soft and pliant in his arms, definitely like no other woman…miraculously wanting him of her own volition, as much as he wanted her – how _long_ had he yearned for that which he once considered an impossibility?

A coveted dream that could never be borne, never his to embrace…

Only one method existed to seize complete control before she could look beyond the façade and see the monster that held her – indeed, he was surprised she had not yet discovered the truth of his affliction, had not sensed it during the night of the festival. Was her kind not supposed to discern what ordinary mortals could not begin to grasp?

It was a vicious method, one that may briefly satisfy his relentless dark thirst but would utterly destroy the woman in his arms. Could any satisfaction be found in causing her death?

He did not believe it possible.

True, he barely knew her and was no stranger to causing mortal demise, but Erik had not spoken carelessly of the deep pull that drew them together. With no other woman through the centuries had he felt this inexplicable bond, more profound than anything he'd ever known…

A bond that should not exist and was never meant to be.

With grave resolve, the Count pressed three fingers against the pulse thrumming rapidly in her neck and watched with forced detachment while Christine faded from awareness. He lifted her limp body into his arms and stared down at her beautiful countenance, her lashes feathered dark crescents against highly flushed cheeks. His gaze lowered to the snowy column of her graceful, swan-like neck, and he cursed the lot thrust upon him.

Fate was a vindictive mistress, jealous by the mere thought of what few morsels of happiness he could salvage, always seeking to destroy them before he might discover the depths of their pleasure!

A life lived in solitude would forever be his curse.

He held her close to his withered heart a moment longer, before walking to the bed and laying her gently down on the coverlet, doing what must be done. The silver moonlight bathed her innocent beauty, beguiling him once more. Swiftly he reached for a blanket that lay folded on the trunk, covering her slender form, before he could submit to temptation's cruel snare and lie beside her, again to hold her in his arms.

With one last fleeting look, the Count cel Tradat stepped away from Christine's bed and swept out into the night.

 **xXx**

The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny stood by the mantel of his uncle's study, a snifter of brandy in one hand, his attention fixed to the low burning flames in the hearth.

"Tonight's ball appeared to be a success," he said more out of passing the time with meaningless words and filling the vacant silence.

"It did, despite that fool girl's attempts to ruin my plans."

Raoul sighed and took a swig of his brandy. Christine's latest venture into the night had once more given him cause for grave concern. He supposed it was understandable, her frequent desire for the fresh air of the outdoors, given the years she cloistered her life away at the Opera House, but she refused to acknowledge the danger. Her uncle, of course, was miffed with her for different reasons. Yet to come to Christine's defense now would only instigate an argument in which Raoul had no desire to partake.

He looked toward the earl, who sat in his chair by the hearth.

"Then you still mean to marry Christine off to one of those men who attended?"

"Of course." His uncle scoffed. "That's what women were created for, Raoul – to form strong alliances through matrimony and produce male heirs. And Lord Lomax has expressed a desire for a son before he dies. His first wife gave him four daughters…"

"Lord _Lomax_?" Raoul repeated in horror, wincing at the thought of Christine in that lecherous geezer's arms. "He's rather old, isn't he? And she's still so much a girl."

"She's the same age as your great aunt when we were wed. Then, too, there's the Count cel Tradat…"

Raoul set his glass goblet on the mantel in horror. "Tell me that you're not considering handing her over to that disfigured madman!"

"Bah. You've been listening to the servants' stories." The earl reached toward a small table nearby and lifted a cigar from a silver box.

"Stories? Until tonight, he hasn't left his castle for a social event for _two years_ – and why else would he wear that ridiculous mask if he wasn't grossly disfigured?"

After their brief meeting hours ago, Raoul was reasonably certain the eccentric Count had more than one secret hidden away behind the ivy-covered walls of Castle Dragan.

"I don't care if he sprouts two heads," the earl gruffly said. "He's also the wealthiest man in the district, perhaps in all of England and Scotland combined, save for the royals of course."

Raoul doubted such an exaggerated claim. He had hoped to appeal to his uncle's sympathetic nature, if he even had one, and had not intended to speak this soon but saw no choice.

"Marry her to me."

"What?" His uncle regarded him with amused disbelief and lit his cigar. "Don't be a fool, boy."

"I'm deadly serious. I care for her. I always have, since we were children."

"Sentimental hogwash," his uncle grumbled. "It would not prove a good match. Montmarte is in dire need of numerous repairs, and your brother squanders what is left of the de Chagny fortune with his gambling. It is a marvel that your family still holds the estate and he hasn't used it as a stake at cards."

Raoul winced at the blunt words. "Let me speak with Phillipe before you make a decision."

"Any amount the Comte could be persuaded to part with in a marriage agreement would never match what either the Count cel Tradat or Lord Lomax could offer."

"Uncle Matthias, at least give me a chance – Phillipe returns to France in a fortnight. I will leave here then and travel home to speak with him."

The earl grudgingly gave his consent. Raoul sincerely thanked him then excused himself to retire for the evening, not wishing to tempt fate and say something that might cause his uncle to change his mind.

Once in his bedchamber, Raoul locked the door, lit the desk lamp, and sat at the small table provided. Pulling the contents from a leather dossier, he sorted through the memorandum collected – notes on sightings, witnesses, and the killings themselves over the past three years. Random and sporadic in the timeline they occurred, the victims were of both social classes – peasants and lords alike. Their bodies drained blue, with twin holes found at the side of their necks…

Raoul sighed, rubbing bleary eyes with forefinger and thumb, and lifted his gaze from the eyewitness account of a barmaid to the ever-changing night sky that flickered from light to dark in rapid succession. A blur of motion on the grounds caught his eye, and he stood to his feet, suddenly alert, then strode to the balcony doors. He scanned the lawn, uncertain of what he saw or that he saw anything, as weary as he was. The darkness grew thick as the moon was again swallowed by clouds – but something felt amiss. On impulse he went to Christine's room, three doors down from his.

Raoul knocked on the door. "Christine…?"

He waited a reasonable amount of time then tried the handle. Locked. Damn it.

"Christine?" he said a little louder in impatience.

No response came, and he sighed in disappointment. What was he thinking? It was the middle of the night, and she must be as exhausted as he felt after the strain of the ball. Resolved to talk with her first thing in the morning, Raoul returned to his room.

He had been taught that ladies were the gentler sex, weaker in mind and physical aptitude, to be treated as delicate china. The journals had opened his eyes to the strengths of the women of the Van Helsing line – those chosen. Yet unless Christine embraced her fate and learned the skills required of her, and to hone those abilities she had no knowledge she possessed, she was as weak as any other female and in need of his protection.

It was his fondest hope that she would recognize and accept the truth of her destiny. Only then, together as man and wife, could they fight the evil that pervaded the countryside, just as her parents had done. Somehow, Raoul must convince her...

For marry her, he would.

 **xXx**

The morning sun cut a persistent swathe along her prone form, the disturbing brightness settling on her closed eyelids.

Christine groaned and turned on her side, putting her back to the annoying light. The soft patter of what sounded like droplets striking wood invaded the slumber she tried hard to recapture, and as she slowly came to consciousness, her mind told her what she heard.

She rolled over to see that the balcony door stood wide, a soft rain striking the floor while the sun shone from beneath rose-tinged gray clouds.

Never, since she had come to this part of the country, had she experienced such bizarre weather. Though she had little on which to base her judgments, having lived most of her life in Paris and all of those days within the Opera House, outings into the city being rare.

She sprang from bed to shut the glass door, her bare feet slipping a little on the wet flooring, and suddenly noticed she still wore her wrapper over her chemise. Odder still, she had not pulled down the bedclothes, but had slumbered on the coverlet, having wrapped herself up in a blanket.

She could not even recall lying down to sleep, though she remembered the ball…

The shocking dreams of what followed felt unnervingly real, more real than any dream of the masked Count previously experienced. And she had dreamt many such dreams since they met at the festival…

He had come to her from the balcony. She had not seen him, not truly, but she had felt him in ways that made her blush, felt him more intimately than in any previous encounter they shared. His chill body had been pressed so strongly to hers, an act she both encouraged and desired…His kiss…she had wanted that too. Awkward from the angle in which they stood, with him pressed behind her, and all too brief. Yet those few seconds of his lips touching hers had heated her blood and made her crane her head as much as possible to seek more of the same.

Christine pressed her fingers to her flushed cheeks to remember how brazenly she responded…

But he had hardly behaved as a gentleman, to enter her bedchamber, uninvited…

Unless, of course, it had only been a dream.

She had been weary but not exhausted, to have toppled to sleep over the made up bed. Warmed by the wine, but not tipsy from it.

Christine did not question why she had no memory of his departure; was that not his habit, to disappear in silence and without her knowledge? But she did wonder why she could remember no more after his stirring kiss…

And yet, if it was a lurid encounter fashioned only in slumber - that was often the way of dreams, was it not? To break off abruptly and veer toward another course.

Half convinced that the sensual interlude never occurred, save for in her shameless mind, Christine went about her morning ablutions and dressed for the day.

In the breakfast room, she was surprised to see no sign of Lucy and relieved to note the earl's absence. The silence, however, allowed her mind to roam free, the uncomfortable questions from earlier relentless in their arrival, like a bad rehearsal repeated again and again.

 _Had_ he been there? Surely not – how would he have scaled her balcony? Climbed the vines of greenery? Perhaps, but she would have _seen_ him, certainly heard the rustling of leaves. She had only just turned her back to the rail when he appeared behind her as silent as a ghost...

No, it had to have been a dream.

"Little Lotte, let her mind wander…"

Christine smiled and looked her cousin's way. "Raoul. Have you eaten? Please, sit down and join me."

She hoped his usual bright chatter might help dispel the dark clouds of confusion that saturated her mind.

He served himself from the small buffet of silver dishes and took a seat cattycornered to hers, at the foot of the table.

"Have you seen Lucy?" Christine asked.

"Lucy?" he repeated vaguely and took a sip of his juice.

"Yes, you know – the cousin with fair hair who lives inside this manor?" Christine retorted a bit dryly and chuckled. "It would seem _your_ mind has wandered. Is anything the matter?"

"It's nothing." He waved her mild concern aside with a faint motion of his hand. "Didn't get much sleep, is all."

"Yes, well, I haven't seen Lucy since before the ball - not during meals or even wandering about the place."

"I'm sure there's no cause for alarm. She's not much of a social butterfly as you may have noticed. She probably had a servant bring her a tray. Perhaps she was upset that our uncle denied her attendance to the ball last night."

Which made no sense, since as Raoul pointed out, she preferred solitude. Christine knew that Lucy entertained her own company, in her bizarre fashion, preferring her dolls to people. But she _had_ spent time with the family at meals, and Christine hoped the girl wasn't ill. She decided to visit her room later, hoping her appearance would be welcome and not undesired.

As they ate, Raoul spoke of the ball and several guests, causing her to grin with his vague explanations of their histories, dithering more than once in the discourse.

"It sounds as if you don't really know them at all," she chided, pouring milk into her tea and adding one lump of sugar.

He smirked and dabbed his mouth with the napkin, then tossed it to his plate. "Perhaps I'm not the best storyteller to document the town's history," he admitted. "I arrived only three weeks before you did. But…" He reached out to squeeze her hand with his. "At least I got you to smile."

She did not wish to lose his company and be forced back into the empty silence of reliving questions that had no answers.

"Actually, I've been thinking…

He raised his brows for her to go on.

"Now, don't take this as my conceding to your wild, outlandish ideas, but I've decided that I would like you to teach me some of those skills you mentioned – as a defensive measure. It can never hurt to learn them."

"Excellent." His smile was blinding. "Shall we begin now?"

"So soon?" she laughed.

"I see no reason to delay, and I'll be busy the entire afternoon."

Christine hesitantly agreed.

A little less than an hour later, she wondered if she'd made a mistake…

She watched with disbelief as on the long table of the same parlor room they visited earlier that week, again locked, Raoul spread out a leather roll, half as long as she was tall. Padded with rich maroon suede, inside were pockets that contained weapons any king's armory would be proud to own. He had earlier moved aside the furniture, to create space, explaining that the area where he usually fenced had open doorways and no true privacy, so the parlor remained the best place for their lessons.

"Raoul, what is this?" Christine shook her head in incredulity. "When I asked you to teach me, I didn't mean _this_." She pulled out a wooden stake and mallet. "How exactly is this supposed to help me should I need to ward off advances from unwanted pursuers? Am I to nail their arms together?"

"That is your sole reason to learn?" He sounded disappointed. "To ward off admirers?"

"I told you at breakfast my reasons, and I have no use for any of these weapons. Besides, they are much too large and cumbersome to hide on my person."

"This," he said, picking up a strange leather glove with a cuff, halfway up to the elbow, "is not." She watched as he demonstrated, snapping it on. "Observe."

He held up the hand. As if by magic, a sharp pointed stake, slimmer and smaller than the one she held, shot up between his fingers.

"Ah yes," she said dryly, "I can see how well that would blend in with my costumes while dancing."

"Dancing?"

"In the chorus, at the opera. I still mean to find a way back there."

"Christine…"

Hearing the wheedling note in his voice, she shook her head.

"My mind is made up. If you won't take me, I'll find my own way back, somehow, before the earl can carry through with his reprehensible plans to marry me off to some horrible stranger."

The words were foolish, of course, no matter how earnest. She could hardly walk all the way to Paris, especially with some nocturnal wild beast on the prowl endangering the countryside.

"Christine, before you do anything drastic, give me a chance to intervene. I shall do my utmost to ensure that you need never have to suffer such a fate." He opened his mouth as if he would say more, and she waited, but he shook his head.

"Let me teach you what I know," he persuaded.

"I want to learn to _defend_ – not attack. Especially not with these…" She motioned with the stake she still held toward a set of wicked looking silver knives with engraving on the blades themselves.

"Duly noted." He unbuckled the bizarre leather glove from his wrist. "Only allow me to show you how these devices work. Whatever you don't like, you don't have to use."

Christine blew out an exasperated breath at his persistence. She abhorred all of the foul weaponry – but he clearly wouldn't listen. Having shared with him her planned escape, an idea rose to mind. Perhaps there was a way to gain what they both wanted.

"Alright. I will become your student and learn whatever skills you think would prove useful for me to know - no matter that I could never and would never maim or kill a living being - but I ask for one thing in return." She took a deep breath, realizing she must be cautious so he wouldn't suspect. "I want to learn to ride a horse."

Whatever he anticipated her to use as a bargaining tool, it wasn't that, his expression one of complete astonishment.

He laughed, quite loudly, and she bristled.

"Is there something incredibly amusing about my request? Not everyone is taught to ride in their childhood, you know."

"Calm down, Lotte. Don't ruffle your pretty feathers." He grinned, but she only crossed her arms at his condescending attitude. "I would consider it an honor and a privilege to teach you to ride. Time spent in your company is always a delight."

She smiled faintly, pacified, though his words seemed to have deeper meaning and gave her a small amount of discomfort. Almost immediately he averted his fixed gaze to the roll of weaponry and withdrew the first abysmal instrument of death.

"Shall we begin?"

xXx


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews of the last chapter – they were much appreciated! Glad you guys are enjoying this. :)  
**

 **And now…**

* * *

 **VI**

The days trickled past, an unending monotony, until one full week had gone by since the night of the unconventional ball, marking Christine's sojourn at Montmarte as one month.

The lessons, though not excessively grueling, were endlessly tiresome. Raoul did not seem to understand that Christine possessed no desire to handle his wretched arsenal of weapons. With each session, he unrolled the incredibly long leather casing, insisting she take the time to learn the use of each blade, stake, and spike - and, as he put it, cast aside later whatever was not to her liking. Had it truly been up to Christine, she would have dumped the whole leather roll into the drink without a backward glance.

For the most part, the training was an act of tedium, but she did appreciate what skills her cousin taught that did not require the brutal weaponry – skills she felt she could _actually use_ should the need present itself. For that reason alone, she continued to meet with him in the locked parlor each afternoon after luncheon.

True to his word, early on the evening of the first day, Raoul gave Christine her first riding lesson. He never let her wander from the stable area, only allowing the horse to walk with her in a slow, wide circle. But he promised her by week's end that if she caught on well, he would extend her lesson to a walk along the grounds in the week following.

Not only did she establish herself as a decent horsewoman, she excelled, earning his cheerful praise. She felt an affinity with the gray gelding chosen for her, though not so much for the sidesaddle she was expected to use. It was rather awkward to sit sideways and hook her leg around a pommel, as befitting a lady. She wished for the split skirt she had once glimpsed in the Opera House costume department, so that she could ride with more freedom as Raoul did.

Awkward or not, she would do what she must, learn what she must, so as to escape what had begun to feel to her a prison. She _would_ find her way home, to Paris…

On the day of the promised outing, Raoul presented her with a different horse – this one pure white. Christine looked at the lovely beast in confusion.

"This mare is also gentle, but with more spirit, not to mention it is more suitable to complement your lovely presence," he explained with his streak of boyish charm.

Christine laughed at that. "Whatever does a horse's appearance matter? I like the grey."

So saying, she offered the gelding a bit of sugar she had filched from the kitchen and affectionately patted its nose and splotched muzzle. Indeed, much of his face was covered by that uneven black splotch.

"But you would look so fine riding this one," Raoul argued, his voice almost a whine.

Christine shook her head. "Raoul, enough. Mist and I have an understanding…"

"Mist?"

Her face grew warm in slight embarrassment. "I didn't think anyone would mind if I named him, since the earl never bothered." Raoul only ever referred to the beasts as "the white", "the grey", and "the black" - what he rode. "The color of his coat reminds me of grey mist at twilight…" Christine added in reflection.

The black splotch over its face reminding her of a mask, though she did not voice those words.

She had not seen or heard from the Count since the ball ten days ago, and while she supposed that wasn't all that remarkable (there had been no arrangements made between them), she had hoped he might come to call, since introductions had at last been exchanged. A foolish wish, given that he never once deigned to leave his castle for a social gathering in the two years he had lived in the region … not until he had come to Montmarte. What incentive had brought him to dispense with his solitude, she strongly wished to know, and if perhaps _she_ might have been the reason.

Yet again she questioned the salacious dream that played on a repetitious cycle within the darkest corner of her mind, still not wholly convinced it had all been her imagining…she remembered too the mirror on her wall, the hazy glimpse of her inside the ancient glass, the absence of her seducer where his form should have been...

It had to have been a dream.

Unless her mind had been playing tricks on her again...

"You are certain you don't wish for a better horse?" Raoul persuaded once more, "You have earned it."

"I am satisfied with Mist." Christine's smile was determined. "He has been with me from the beginning, and I feel more familiar with him."

Thankfully, Raoul gave no further argument. Once their horses were both saddled and mounted, he led the way out of the stable with Christine following, the steady clopping of hooves against the stretch of hard earth peaceful, coming at an easy pace.

The skies above were a murky ash-gray, the clouds few, boding no rain, and the fresh scent of evergreen laced the chill air. They took the trail along the perimeter of forest that bordered the earl's estate. Christine found her gaze turning aside to scan and linger amid the lofty trees of fir. She told herself she looked for nothing in particular, though at every fleeting shadow and glimpse of black, her heart quickened.

"What is on the other side of the forest?" she wondered aloud as they passed a narrow dirt path that led into the dense wood.

Raoul frowned. "Why do you wish to know?"

"Curiosity, I suppose?" Christine shook her head. "It was a rhetorical question. I don't really need to know."

"There is nothing but an old rundown castle. It wouldn't interest you."

"Oh, I don't know. It might be intriguing. Does anyone live there?"

"The forest is too dangerous," he insisted, a slight edge to his voice, "the castle too far. Would you like to visit the sea instead?"

The Count had also warned against perils to be found within the forest at night, though hours of protective daylight still remained. Yet glancing over at Raoul's rigid jaw set like stone, she inwardly sighed and surrendered the idea of suggesting an exploration of the woodland paths.

She had no doubt to whom the castle belonged, the likelihood of more than one such edifice existing in this small region remote. And she certainly had no intention of seeking out its master. Still, she had never actually seen a castle, save for the glimpse of one in a painting at the opera house, and would not have minded viewing its turrets from a distance.

They soon approached a cliff that overlooked a vast body of water which glistened darkly in the muted light of the overcast day. Dismal and foreboding, the sight of the brackish green waves crashing against the jagged rocks beneath sent a chill down Christine's spine that had nothing to do with the frigid wind blowing against her face.

"Nothing like the sea at Perros-Guirec, is it? Should your scarf blow into those waters I would be hard-pressed to dive in and retrieve it."

"I would be hard-pressed to ask you to," Christine muttered her agreement.

Rather than retrace their path to the manor, he led her further down the cliff's side and toward a fringe of forest that edged what appeared at a distance to be a clearing. As they drew closer she could see that here the wild grasses had been trodden down flat in places by the wheels of some conveyance. But it wasn't the appearance of former habitation that caused her insides to begin to churn. It was the rust color that stained numerous fronds of the grass.

Raoul slid off his saddle but Christine did not budge.

"Raoul, what is this?" she said grimly, though her mind whispered the answer she had no wish to know.

"A small band of gypsies camped here three months ago," he said with his back to her, studying the area.

"On the earl's land? I'm surprised he would allow it."

"We are no longer on his land. The fork in the path took us away from it."

"No longer on…" her words trailed away, her somber gaze going to the hideous reddish-brown that cloaked much of the greenery. "Raoul, why did you bring me to this place?"

"They were all killed, not a one of their band left. Six men. It is purported that a wild beast attacked in the night."

He had no need to say the words; she had already pieced much of that truth together.

"I want to leave, Raoul."

"We won't stay long. I just want to scout the area to see if anything was missed…"

"I want to leave _now_ , Raoul."

"Christine, we will. Soon. I just -"

She turned the horse around, lightly kicking her booted heel against its side while flicking the reins to encourage Mist into action.

"Christine!"

Paying him no heed, she departed the foul place of death as quickly as she felt able, still such a novice to the skill of riding. She wished she could push the gelding from its present trot into a wild gallop and flee the dismal site with all haste.

He continued to call after her, to return. She continued to ignore him.

How dare he bring her to the grisly scene of such a violent crime without first telling her of his appalling plan to do so! But of course, that was his motive. He knew she would never have agreed to come see this, so he had tricked her, likely hoping to encourage her belief in his dark and gruesome tale of preternatural beings that stalked the night.

At last she reached the path that ran alongside the forest and led to the manor. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a shadow dart within the trees, but before she could turn her head fully to see, the gentle horse beneath her tossed its mane and let out a whinny of clear agitation.

"Mist, what's wrong?" Christine pulled slightly on the reins, as Raoul had taught, attempting to slow the horse to a mild walk.

Mist shook his head harder, letting out another harsh whinny while trying to fight the bit, then abruptly broke into a wild run.

"Mist- stop! NO! **_What are you doing?!_** "

The surroundings sped past in a blur of gray and black and green while Christine desperately struggled to hold her seat, the frantic pace the spooked horse set jarring to her bones. She actually feared she might break inside and lose all her teeth from the violent rattling they took.

To her panicked horror, the saddle suddenly disappeared from beneath her skirts. She felt the icy surge of air surround her in the moment before her body slammed hard against the unforgiving ground and the breath was knocked from her lungs…

Her mind swirled in a thick haze. She came to slowly, her eyelids weighted and refusing to open. She struggled to think, to question what happened, but could only let out a low whimper. Her body lay splayed upon the dirt and what must be sharp bits of bark or pebbles, perhaps even thorns. If not for her thick clothing, she would be pierced to the skin. Even so, she thrummed with bruising pain from head to foot. In such a battered state, she should feel no inkling of safety…

Yet the strong arm that lifted her beneath her neck, the large hand that clasped the round of her shoulder filled her with a strange melting relief. She wished to sink into the bearer's hold and never resurface. The icy touch of fingertips that so tenderly brushed her cheek alleviated the fiery sting of a scrape there.

 _Christine…Christine..._

She heard the silken command not with her ears, the concerned whisper of her name instead filtering like mist through her dazed mind that once more began to succumb to darkness. She wished to respond, to prolong the sensation of being held by arms not yet familiar but recognizable to her soul…

"Christine!"

Raoul's harsh cry brought her to full awareness. She heard the thud of boots hit the ground then race toward her. A second time she felt arms lift her shoulders, desperate and not as gentle as before.

"Are you badly hurt? What happened?"

"Raoul…?" she whispered in confusion, gradually opening her eyes. "But…were you not already here?" Even as she said the words, she knew them to be false. She could not recall all of what happened, not entirely, but the arms that earlier held her with such strength tempered with such gentleness had not been her cousin's. Of that she was certain.

"You must have hit your head when you fell and imagined I was with you. I'm sorry to say I only just arrived. Can you sit up? Most peculiar – the grey taking off in frenzy like that. He's never behaved in such a manner - has always been so placid, could have been a pony for a child. Are you certain you're alright? Have you any idea what spooked him so?"

With his aid, Christine sat up, pressing a hand to her forehead. Raoul's words were plentiful and terse, and she sensed his odd rambling came out of his concern for her.

"A snake in the grass perhaps?" she suggested groggily.

"In this cold? Not likely. They burrow for warmth."

Christine shook her head, not truly caring what the dreadful reptiles did, wishing only to return to the manor and find her own comfort and warmth.

"Can you stand?" Raoul clasped her arm.

"Yes, I think so."

She ached all over, was certainly bruised but didn't feel broken. Ten years of training in her strict instructor's classes had conditioned her to endure many a fall.

With his help, she rose unsteadily to her feet, holding to his arm a moment to regain her balance. Wrinkling her nose at her frightful appearance, she did her best to whisk away the soil and crushed leaves that clung to her hair, bodice and skirts. Raoul, being the gentleman he was, averted his attention to his horse, bringing it around to where Christine stood.

"I will return you to the manor then fetch the stable boy to go in search of the grey," he said. "You will need to ride with me, Lotte."

Christine nodded, having already arrived to that conclusion. She wished to leave this place without delay. But once Raoul lifted her into the saddle she could not resist a furtive glance back into the forest, in an attempt to see past its dense branches. All the while she wondered if she really had imagined _his_ presence earlier...

Just as she imagined it now.

She could not shake the feeling of being watched – but that seemed foolish. Surely if the masked Count was truly there, he would not have disappeared from her side so secretively and without explanation…for what cause would he leave? They did not part on ill terms; he had no reason to be lurking in the shadows, spying…

Troubled but determined not to dwell on what held no explanation, Christine set her sights on the darkening road before them. A sharp burst of wind came out of nowhere and whipped her long, tousled hair into her face. She shivered.

A storm was coming.

 **xXx**

The next afternoon Christine was summoned to the earl's study.

Her hip and shoulder were badly bruised and her head still ached, though the injuries weren't severe, certainly nothing she couldn't manage. Cold compresses, rest, and tea steeped with mint leaves and served with honey had achieved wonders. Though, even if she was lying in a sickbed and mortally wounded, she presumed the earl would demand her presence if he so willed it.

He sat at his desk, busy at work, writing what appeared to be a letter. Christine hesitated then entered the room, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence.

Gritting her teeth, she waited…and waited.

He demanded promptness; she condescended to his demand, only to have him completely ignore her? No doubt in an absurd display of power, to remind her what control he held over her as her guardian.

Annoyed by such peevishness, she opened her mouth to question his reason for summoning her at the same time he laid down his quill and looked up.

"A messenger from Lord Lomax arrived this morning. Lord Lomax has requested your company on Friday afternoon. I have written a reply agreeing to his request."

At Montmarte five and a half weeks, and Christine still could not believe his gall.

"As long as you have accepted on my behalf, perhaps you should also meet with him in my place."

His eyes narrowed in warning at her calm and clipped reply.

"I need none of your impertinence, Miss. You will present yourself downstairs upon his arrival at three o'clock Friday afternoon."

She did not bother to voice an argument, knowing it was futile. If she refused, likely he would only lock her in her bedchamber and send a servant to escort her at the appointed time. He had threatened to do so before. That thought spurred another. She recalled how one of the chorus shared with the other dancers the trick of ridding themselves of an unwanted admirer and causing a total loss of interest – to behave the opposite of all he preferred in a woman.

With little time to prepare for battle, scarcely a day, she must find and question Daisy. The young maid had proved to know information about the Count cel Tradat, never mind that Christine had already learned most of it. Perhaps she would know something about Lord Lomax as well…

Christine straightened her shoulders and gave her answer.

"As you wish."

The earl's brows lifted in mild surprise. "I am pleased to see that you've accepted your fate."

"You told me I have little choice." She attempted to sound as meek as possible.

"Yes, that's true…" He continued to regard her with some suspicion then abruptly nodded. "That is all. You may go."

As relieved as she was to leave the dim confines of his stuffy library, a tenacious desire to know more niggled at her and she couldn't prevent a question. She turned at the door.

"May I ask, have any of your other guests made inquiries?"

The moment she released the betraying words into the air, she wished she could call them back.

He shifted in his chair and regarded her with fingers steepled beneath his double chins. "Is there anyone in particular to whom you refer?"

"No, I only wondered."

"The Count cel Tradat, perhaps?"

She felt the burn of embarrassment scorch her face and wished a second time that she'd kept her silence.

"I see that I'm correct." He snorted in laughter. "You appeared to enjoy each other's company at the dance. His holdings are beyond reproach, I would not be averse to such a union. You see, I can be amenable. Would you like me to issue an invitation so that I might speak with him and discern his level of interest?"

Heavens, no! What had she done?

"Please - forget I said anything." She backed a step away, her hand on the knob. "I wasn't really that curious, and certainly not about him. I just…I only wondered."

By his pensive expression at her sudden agitation, Christine doubted he would respect her wishes. She quickly left the room and closed the door before she made matters worse.

Perhaps he would forget…

She hoped he would forget.

 **x**

But why could she not remember…?

Christine sat in the parlor and stared out the window at the deepening shadows that swept across the lawn.

The time she had returned to her room on the night of the ball up until the following morning when she woke in her bed still remained a haze of troubled confusion. Had the masked Count –

 _Erik_

It came to her as sudden as a piercing wind, blowing a fraction of the cobwebs from her mind – _that_ was the name he had given. The name he had told her to call him by! Surely lurid dreams did not conjure something so rational as a name? Her heart pounded at her next thought: Had he actually done something so scandalous as to visit her bedchamber and work his seduction on her with his dark velvet voice, his chill touch...and lips that burned?

She closed her eyes against the stirring memory.

Surely not...

But _had_ he?

If that was true, why then did he now keep his distance? And if it was only a dream, his lack of contact still made no sense. She had thought, after their dance, that he might appear the following day, at least give some explanation for his sudden departure at the ball…

Almost two weeks, and she'd heard nothing.

Christine struggled to evade all the internal pesky questions for which she had no answers, initiating bright conversation with Raoul at dinner and later throwing herself into a book she'd found in the library, one not very intriguing but it helped to pass the time…

Pass the time into what? She certainly had no wish for tomorrow afternoon to arrive.

Reminded of her undesirable task, she grimaced. Slamming the book shut, she set it on the table. Upstairs, she found Daisy turning down Lucy's bed for the night and questioned her about the disgusting Lord Lomax, grateful the little maid was such a wealth of information about the locals. At last, armed with what she needed to deflect the old man's interest, Christine moved to return downstairs, when a blur of motion outside a window on the second landing caught her attention. She moved closer to the pane to see.

Through the glass, she saw a woman with fair hair and wearing a long white nightdress dart across the lawn.

Lucy…?

Startled at the sight, especially now that dusk had fallen, she pressed her brow to the glass to see better, noting the hazy apparition was headed for the maze.

Hesitant with what she should do, Christine continued downstairs.

Clearly Lucy wasn't in her right mind, in all likelihood again immersed in her fantastical world of invisible beings, and could easily get lost within the labyrinth – how well Christine knew the danger of that!

Making a decision, she grabbed her cloak from the hat tree near the door and slipped the heavy garment around her shoulders. Prodded by the recollection of what her initial visit to the labyrinth entailed, she made a quick detour to the parlor and picked up the knitting bag of her late great aunt, there finding what she had hoped to use. She selected one bright ball of yarn and slipped it into her cloak, picking up another she kept in her hand.

Raoul had gone into the village, and the earl had retired to his rooms for the night, not that she would seek his questionable help unless absolutely necessary. It was up to Christine alone to protect Lucy –

And find out what the devil was going on.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: - yes, I know - bad me - only a glimpse of Erik. Rest assured, there will soon come a time in this tale when the chapters will be saturated with his presence... muahahaha. ;-)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you for the last chapter reviews! :) …If I haven't said so before, this tale isn't always what it seems. Keep that in mind if you're confused by certain events that transpire– the answers will manifest as story progresses.**

 **And now…**

* * *

 **VII**

Christine lit a lantern and slipped outside with it into the chill evening air.

What would entice the foolish girl to visit the dark maze as twilight lengthened its shadows and night shrouded the land? Or in the warped reality of her perception did she even need a reason…?

A filmy mist crept over the grounds, the wisps of ghostly white not so obscure that Christine lost sense of direction. She hurried to the entrance of the ancient maze of crumbling rock and ivy. With no guests of a ball to roam the grounds, no torches were lit within. She hesitated at the memory of her last time here and her meeting with the masked Count, then shook aside any unwelcome rumination in the urgency of this present moment and stepped inside the labyrinth of stone and dense greenery.

"Lucy…?" She spoke barely above her usual tone of voice. "Are you in here?"

Unrolling the skein of yarn, Christine slowly walked, using the string as her trail of bread crumbs. If Fate were kind, she would find Lucy around the next bend. But Fate could be cruel, as well she knew, and it was best to be prepared.

Having lost her way on three occasions in the month since she had arrived to this remote and turbulent countryside, she had learned that truth all too well.

Unraveling the yarn while holding the lantern proved awkward, her progress slow, but she would never again enter the darkness without a source of light to guide her.

Nonetheless, the light from the flame trapped safely within the glass traveled only so far, highlighting the immediate area before her and the wild foliage covering the high walls on either side. The remainder of the path lay buried in thick darkness. Relying on her memory from her initial visit to this maze, it twisted numerous times, sometimes upon itself, stretching far into the distance.

"Lucy…?" she softly called again.

Only the silence answered.

All too soon she came to the end of the yarn she held. Worried that perhaps she had not brought enough, she tied the end string to the second large ball and anxiously continued her search. Softly she called Lucy's name as she walked.

A sudden wind, chill and crisp, blew against her while a strange cloying heaviness settled around her. Something felt out of place, disturbing, and it took every ounce of resolve not to spin on her heel and flee back to the manor.

"Oh, Lucy, where are you," she pleaded beneath her breath.

The bushes rustled a short distance ahead. Christine went absolutely still, her heart hammering in her throat.

"Lucy…?" she inquired meekly.

A low growl rumbled through the air, scattering chills up her spine, while terror churned in rivulets through her blood. Frozen, she felt powerless to move though every instinct commanded that she run –

But she would not leave her helpless cousin to the danger of some feral beast! All former warnings of mysterious bloodthirsty predators that scoured the countryside to stalk their victims rose in her mind to intensify the horror.

Briefly she shut her eyes. Never had she wished for one of Raoul's infernal weapons more than she did now. All she had to defend herself was a decimated ball of yarn and a sputtering lamp – hardly worthy objects to deter a predator.

The growling intensified, louder now, more threatening – and Christine found herself slowly taking a step backward, then another, her hand shaking so hard she was surprised she didn't drop the lantern.

Another rustle stirred the bushes – this one closer. Some shadowy thing jumped into the path and raced toward her.

She let out a strangled cry, dropping the ball of yarn and gripping the handle of the lantern with all her strength, ready to fling it at the advancing creature once it came in sight.

" _Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!"_

Christine gasped out a shaky laugh of relief, tears rushing to her eyes and her legs nearly folding beneath her as Lucy's dog scampered into the pool of golden light. He jumped up against her skirts.

"Topsy – you horrible, wonderful mutt – what are you doing here?"

The answer hit her at once. The pup must have come with Lucy.

"Topsy, where is Lucy? Take me to Lucy."

He whined and barked then ran a short distance ahead, turning back to run a few steps. He barked once more, and Christine took his actions as a sign to follow.

Inhaling a tremulous breath, she nervously picked her way after the dog, wending through the closed-in walls, twisting right then left, again and again. Christine had never traveled this deep into the maze and too late, she realized she no longer had her yarn trail to guide her. She had dropped it when she thought she might need to defend herself against some ferocious wild creature. Now she hoped the little mutt could lead her safely out of the dark labyrinth, and questioned her intelligence to put her faith in a pup that couldn't be more than a year old.

Just when she came to the conclusion that she'd made a foolish error in judgment and Topsy wanted only to play – perhaps as lost as she – Christine heard the low, distant murmur of voices, followed by a soft feminine giggle.

Who would her cousin visit in such secrecy? Had Lucy not been in _her nightdress_?

Shivers of disquiet traveled along every inch of Christine's flesh. The faraway laughter and conversation were indistinguishable and eerie – but not as frightening as the sudden sharp cry that came from somewhere beyond the wall to her left.

"Lucy?" she called, louder than before. "Are you alright? Oh, why won't you answer me...?"

There came the sound of running footsteps, followed by the heart-stopping lull of dead silence.

With her heart hammering against her ribs, a mutineer wishing to escape and abandon her to her fool quest, Christine forced herself to walk forward. She took the next bend to the right, the only direction to go. A quiet rustle came from the other side of the wall. Topsy? Or something more ominous than a growling mutt? As she continued along the path, the flame suddenly extinguished in her lantern.

"What the devil," she whispered.

The abrupt wind of earlier was absent, there wasn't even a faint breeze. Even if there had been, the flame was enclosed in glass. The oil must have run out. Oh, botheration…of all times for this to happen! The torch had blown out her first time through this warren of stone walls, and now this. Surely, one incident had nothing to do with the other; surely, it must be due only to a dried wick…

Perhaps that could explain the lantern. But nothing could explain the torch.

Christine gripped the handle of the useless lantern more tightly. She could not allow her mind to travel down bizarre trails of no return, fed by frightful stories of lore she'd been plagued with since her arrival at Montmarte. Not now, when she was lost in the midst of this endlessly dark maze. There _had_ to be a rational explanation for everything that had happened here tonight…and before.

The moon slipped free of the clouds – no longer full, but giving off enough light to dimly map out the path before her. She let out a relieved breath and took the next bend to the left, moving into a small clearing of what appeared to be the center of the maze - then stopped frozen in her tracks.

In the wash of pale moonlight, a stone bench stood and upon that bench, Lucy lay in repose, still as death. In her bone-white bed gown, with her long fair hair shining almost silver against porcelain skin, the girl might have been a ghost.

"Lucy…?" Christine whispered. She broke from her shock and hurried toward her cousin, falling to her knees and putting an insistent hand to her shoulder. "Lucy!"

Beneath the thin muslin Lucy's skin felt cold, which came as no surprise since she was barely dressed for the chill autumn night.

Desperate to wake her, Christine shook her cousin's shoulder harder and called her name a third time.

Suddenly the girl's eyes sprang wide open.

Startled, Christine jumped back a little – then experienced a wash of relief, so intense it made her tremble, to realize the girl wasn't dead as she'd begun to fear.

"Lucy – why the devil did you come out here? What happened to you?"

Her cousin's eyes never left the night sky above, and Christine wondered that she actually believed Lucy might respond to her, when she rarely had done so before.

"Can you sit up?" Christine urged softly. "Here, let me help you. We must return to the manor before anyone discovers you missing. It's frightfully cold out here – too cold to be wandering the grounds dressed as you are."

The girl offered no resistance, malleable as a puppet that Christine aided to rise. With the motion, Lucy's curtain of hair fell away from her shoulder, revealing a dark smear on her neck, what appeared to be blood.

"Lucy, you've hurt yourself! What happened?" She recalled the distant murmurs of earlier. "Was someone here with you?"

Lucy blinked slowly and lifted her hand to the side of her neck, holding it there.

"I scratched myself on the leaves – it's nothing."

Surprised and encouraged to receive that much of a response, Christine helped Lucy to stand, then decided to press the girl further for answers.

"I heard voices."

"I was talking to myself."

Christine supposed that made sense; the girl did it often. And yet…

Lucy swayed as though she might collapse. Christine tightened her hold around her cousin's waist, thinking perhaps she had risen too quickly, and gave her time to regain her balance. Even so, Lucy seemed no better. She was weak, barely able to stand, much less to walk, and Christine didn't see how she would get them both through the maze and back to the manor, but what other recourse was there? She certainly had no wish to wait within the green darkness for someone to find them! It could be hours before their absence was discovered.

With the extinguished lantern no more than a hindrance, she left it on the bench. Thankfully she could hear Topsy snuffle and paw at something beneath the bushes and called to the mutt, hoping the little beast could somehow lead them from the maze.

The dog ran their way, jumping against Lucy's legs in apparent glee, its slight weight almost knocking the girl over, then Topsy let out a yipping bark and ran to the area from which Christine earlier emerged.

She followed, bringing Lucy with her, hoping the pup wasn't simply on another playful romp.

"Why ever did you come out here this late?" Christine asked again.

"The dark fairy wanted to play," Lucy said in her childlike manner and quietly giggled, as if at a secret.

Christine sighed. Clearly the girl's visit into lucidness had been brief, and she would offer no further coherent information.

To Christine's frustration, the inconstant moon once more slipped behind a cover of grey cloud. She used her free hand to skim the ivy at her right, to achieve some sense of direction in the darkness, apprehensive of walking into a wall. At least the girl _could_ walk, though not swiftly and not without Christine to support her. The pup rustled somewhere ahead. Christine followed the sounds, hoping she wasn't being twisted and turned to another area of the maze. She nearly collapsed with relief to suddenly come upon the yarn trail.

In the darkness, she had to strain to see the faint line of pale color in the grass, but at long last they emerged from the complex warren of ivy-covered stone.

"Please," Lucy said, "Don't tell Papa I was here. He doesn't like me to play with the dark fairy or speak of him."

Small wonder, if this was Lucy's idea of playtime. The girl shivered in a thin nightdress in the dark of night and bare of foot, though Christine shared her cloak with her as best she could to give her some warmth.

" _Please_ ," Lucy begged again, grasping her arm almost painfully, her nails digging into her sleeve, when Christine gave no response. "Promise you won't tell. Papa will lock me away in the tower forever if he knows – he said so…"

With her knowledge of the tyrant-earl, Christine did not believe the warning to be an idle threat.

"Very well," she said against her better judgment. "But, Lucy, you must promise _never_ to leave the manor again without telling anyone. You might have frozen to death had you stayed out here all night, with no one even aware of you being gone! If I hadn't looked out the window when I did, I wouldn't have known."

Lucy said nothing, drawing within her private world again, and Christine sighed, hoping her cousin's silence was her agreement.

At last they reached the manor and slipped inside, Topsy scampering ahead of them. Christine helped Lucy up the staircase, but the girl could barely manage the steps, by this time shaking so hard her teeth were nearly chattering.

"Where have you two been?"

At Raoul's impatient query coming from behind, Lucy shot Christine a pleading look filled with alarm, the message clear - to keep the secret between them.

Uncertain if she was doing the right thing, Christine addressed Raoul over her shoulder.

"Lucy went outside for the pup – she…fell and twisted her ankle. I was helping her to her room."

She hated any form of deceit, but had given the girl her word, and from experience knew Raoul wouldn't relent until he had an explanation that satisfied. Lucy smiled softly at Christine in appreciation.

"Allow me." Raoul came up from behind, and Christine gladly shifted Lucy to his arms, weary from the entire excursion.

Replaying the last half hour, she stood and watched as he carried their younger cousin to the second floor landing, before following in his stead. Something still made no sense. She had heard more than one voice in the center of the maze, was sure of it. The conversation had been at a distance, but there had been differences in pitch. A tone much lower than her cousin's…

Someone other than Lucy had been there.

Raoul laid the girl on the four-poster bed as Christine stepped inside Lucy's room and waited near the doorway.

"Thank you, Raoul," she said, circumventing the questions she could see in his eyes. "I will tend to Lucy."

Her order for him to leave clear, Christine glanced at him only briefly as he came alongside her, before averting her focus to Lucy. She was still angry with him for the morbid little sightseeing tour he had sprung upon her, but it wasn't for that cause she wished him absent.

"Goodnight then," he said in parting, a thread of hurt confusion in his tone.

Christine nodded once. "Also, if you could find Daisy and ask her to bring up a hot water bottle..."

At his nod, she closed the bedchamber door and moved to sit beside Lucy, who had snuggled under the thick gold duvet. The girl hugged one of her china dolls close but didn't look away.

"Now," Christine said softly, "I would like you to tell me all about the dark fairy."

 **xXx**

The morning inevitably dawned, and Christine met it with grim resolve, Lucy's words darting relentless along the periphery of her mind.

 _He's tall and quite handsome…_

Slowly she prepared for the unwelcome day, choosing her least flattering dress of ash-grey wool embellished with a modicum of decor, the material covering every inch of her skin from throat to wrist and doing little to enhance her figure. It was what she called her cleaning dress and what she wore when chores must be done. At the Opera House, Madame expected the girls weekly to keep their dormitories clean as well as to do their personal laundry. The dress was a perfect choice for today's tedious chore.

Christine brushed her hair out but instead of leaving it down, as she preferred, she braided the thick mass of curls and tenaciously pinned them at her nape, spinster-like, hoping it would make her look uninviting and coldly severe. A dusting of ivory face powder did its job to blanch the healthy rose color from her cheeks and lips.

 _Sometimes he dances with me …_

She ate very little, certain her churning stomach would manage no more than a hard biscuit with the black tea, foregoing her usual two lumps of sugar. When the dreaded hour came, and Daisy came for her with the message of her guest, she dutifully arrived to the front parlor, not missing her great uncle's stern, narrowed eyes at her altered appearance.

Lord Lomax, however, did not seem either insulted or deterred. For their entire carriage ride, he proved the opposite, and in disgust she wondered why no requisite chaperone was present, unless his driver, who sat outside the closed vehicle, was considered an escort.

During her unceasing spiel of chatter and frequent vacuous laughter – all of which Daisy told her would annoy the man and remind him of his deceased wife whom he detested – Christine continually needed to slap his roving hands away from her form. And if she scooted any closer to the wall of the carriage to create futile distance, she very well might have broken through the thin-walled contraption.

Frustrated near tears by the time they arrived back to Montmarte, Christine begged away any further interaction with the leering lord, who lingered with expectancy as if waiting to be invited to tea. She pleaded the beginnings of a headache, which wasn't far from the truth, and hurried into the manor and up the stairs.

Thankfully, the earl wasn't present, and she found blessed solitude in her room. The first thing she did was to remove all the little stabbing hairpins and let the thick braid swing free down her back, though she did not bother with the task of unfurling it.

The box of journals stowed beneath her bed seemed to call to her, but she could not yet rouse either the desire or the courage to look between their vellum sheets. Recalling the abandoned lantern, she decided a dose of fresh air was much needed, and it would be wise to revisit the maze while daylight yet remained.

 _He dresses all in black…_

Retracing her steps created little problem, the yarn trail still winding over the grassy corridors within the intricate pattern of walls. Beyond where the pale string ended, the blades were crushed, showing where Christine had practically dragged Lucy along with her. In the center of the maze, the lantern sat waiting, and Christine plucked it up, also scouting the area for anything amiss, though she had no idea what she was looking for. Evidence of another being, perhaps, who shared those minutes alone with Lucy…?

And how many more minutes within how many more nights besides?

 _He speaks to me in poems and stories…_

Christine approached the area where the pup had been digging. There she found an odd piece of carved ivory, perhaps a button, approximately one inch in length and oddly shaped like a bone, though certainly it belonged to no skeletal frame.

Noting the skies were growing darker and not wishing ever again to be caught within when night fell, she left the maze and stopped just outside of it, staring over the expanse of lawn toward the manor _…_ evading the steps that would take her to its imprisoning doors, back to the confinement of hollow chambers, back to the family she wished to avoid…

Raoul, with his persistence to train her.

Her great uncle, with his proclivity to dominate her.

And Lucy, who teetered on the precipice to madness.

The sun made no appearance today, hidden beyond a thick veil of cloud, the skies glowing like a luminescent pearl cast in shadow, its sheen dim as violet dusk began to settle over the shadowed land.

A strange awareness tingled her senses, and she looked around the area, her gaze wandering to the far right.

The sight of a cloaked figure in the distance wearing a wide-brimmed fedora and heading toward the forest had her blink in astonishment. At first disbelieving of his actual presence there, sure her eyes tricked her, she stared. For a moment her heart ceased to beat within her breast.

 _His eyes are beautiful, and when he's angry, they glow…_

Balling her hand into a fist so tight she felt the nails mark her flesh, Christine took several quick steps in his direction. He was too far away to hear, and she had no desire to shout.

Setting down the lantern, she picked up the hem of her skirts and ran to catch up until she came within acceptable speaking distance, then slowed to a walk.

She worked to control her panting breaths as she followed a short several feet behind their elusive masked neighbor.

"Count cel Tradat…"

He continued to walk as if unaware, though she knew even a man going deaf would have had to hear her rapid footsteps rustling through the dry grasses.

"My lord Count…"

She had no idea if she even used the proper form of address, having never been educated in social refinements beyond anything a thespian would know. But a spark lit her blood at how blatantly he ignored her – and Christine watched him continue to shun her in angry disbelief.

His cloak billowing behind him was suggestive of the flutter of a bat's wing as he increased his already rapid gait. His steps, now at a walking run, even still possessed such power and animal grace that for a fascinated moment she lost herself in the dark magnetism of his tall, lean form.

She recalled the night of the ball, recalled the events that followed and the dream that felt like no dream…

" _Erik_."

At her clipped use of the name coming softer than previous attempts to gain his attention, he halted abruptly in his tracks as though suddenly turned to dark marble.

Yet he made no move to turn and greet her.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: I know, - bad authoress for leaving it there, but I didn't want you to have to wait another week. I figured short and sweet is good when I post earlier- right?…. *smiles sweetly and dashes into the convenient maze…**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) Glad you guys are liking this! It's definitely a new experience for me – to write in this genre. lol But I always have loved a challenge… And now…**

* * *

 **VIII**

.

Any uncertainty Christine might have hoped for dissolved to dust as she glared at his broad back.

"That is your name, isn't it? _Erik_."

She said it again, ignoring the gooseflesh that popped out beneath her covered arms and the manner in which his shoulders stiffened.

The oppressive chains of silence stretched between them and bound her there. Even so, the words of accusation struggled up, relentless to be freed.

"You came to my bedchamber that night. You _seduced_ me. You took liberties and touched me in ways no man ever has…"

She cursed the tears that wet her eyes. Cursed the waver in her voice. Cursed the man who stood so still and silent before her.

 _You left me_ , she whispered in the silence of her mind.

"You had no right," she said heatedly to the empty space between them.

"I know…"

It was an eternity before his reply came, and when it did, Christine was struck anew by the sensuous chords of his velvet, dark voice.

Dear God, that voice…

"It was a mistake."

She flinched as if slapped. Those were not the words she expected to hear. They wounded and mocked, branding her a fool, and she allowed harsher words their freedom in just reprisal.

"Are you such a coward that you cannot even face me?"

The sudden ferocity with which he turned on his heel and closed the distance to mere inches between them trapped the breath in her lungs. Shaken by the proximity of his towering strength, she forced her gaze to lift from the broad expanse of his heaving chest to the feral glow of his eyes behind the sockets of his black mask.

Such vehemence blazed within those shadowed eyes, and she knew in an instant that he could destroy her if he so wished. He could wrap his large, slender hands around her slim bones and break her like a twig. He could smooth those same chill hands upon her flesh and send her inhibitions up in a blaze that would forever scorch her soul…

And for one fleeting moment, she knew she would be wise to fear what he could do to her, even wiser to run away. But now that he was finally here, standing so tall and still before her, after so many empty days and nights without him, she found she could not retreat.

God save her soul…

Or perhaps it was already lost.

"Lucy," she said with resolve to vacate such troubling thoughts, surprised by how steady her words came. "Have you been meeting with her at night, in the maze? Are you…" She took a bracing breath and forced herself to say all of it, "Are you her lover?"

The confusion that so suddenly filled his enraged golden orbs revealed the truth and made the embarrassment suffered worth the sacrifice to utter such contemptible words. A wave of relief soothed her, followed once more by a peculiar wave of regret just as strong.

"Why would I want Lucy when you –"

He did not finish the thought, his words that seemed torn from him abruptly cut off as if sliced away. In that instant the atmosphere shifted between them, rendering Christine breathless and silent.

Their eyes remained locked, his now burning with a raw need that quickened the beating of her heart. Sensation, thick and heady, rose up to drown Christine's soul. It made her want to run. It kept her fixed in place. For a transfixed moment that hung suspended, neither of them moved, standing so close, so unbearably close…

She felt her body sway a fraction toward him. His gloved hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

"You never said goodbye," she whispered, the hurt he inflicted with his frequent desertion guiding her words. "Why did you leave without saying goodbye?"

His eyes flared, the look in them causing a rush of warmth to stir her blood. His gaze flicked down to her parted lips. He stood statuesque - a taciturn, dark god of the forest, never once moving, as the wind picked up and whipped about them, the edges of his cloak rising with a rippling snap. His eyes lifted, burning her in gold.

"I did not think it necessary."

"It would have been kinder."

"I am not a kind man."

She shook her head in frustrated denial. "If that were so, you would have left me to be trampled underfoot at that pagan festival. You would have left me to wander alone in the mist. You would have left me to lie insensible when I was thrown from my horse…" for now she was certain that had been no dream possessed by a dazed mind either.

"Perhaps I should have, perhaps that was a mistake as well," he said through gritted teeth, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching near his thighs. "And so, _goodbye_."

Stung by his mercurial shift of mood and the sudden cold, clipped farewell, a sardonic mockery to her earlier request, Christine took a step back in angry confusion.

"Fine then – _goodbye!_ _And_ ** _never_ **_seek me out again!_ "

She whirled around and took no more than a few steps, cursing the tears that rose to film her eyes, when suddenly the pressure of leather-encased fingers clamped around her wrist.

Before she could gasp out a curt question, before she could question her reasoning, he hauled her spinning around to him and seized her mouth with his, holding her captive. His long, slender fingers crushed her scalp. Hard and demanding, his cold lips plundered the soft curves of her lips, his hot tongue commanding entrance to the hidden recess of her mouth…

And she gave it. At first too stunned in surprise to resist, then too lost to him to covet her freedom. Barely aware she was kissing him back with such shameless and fervent surrender.

Suddenly, he broke free of her, his hands dropping to grasp her arms and push her away while holding her with him as if he had no desire to truly let her loose.

"Go home, Christine," he rasped, giving her a little shake, "Go _home_ – and if you have any sense, **_never_** seek **_me_** out again!"

He pivoted, his cloak snapping about his legs, and left her standing there, his stride swift and sure as he hastened toward the forest. Pressing shaky fingers to her swollen lips, Christine could only stand numbly and tremble, watching him go.

 **xXx**

The redoubtable Count cel Tradat, feared as a prince of darkness by many in his homeland, by the multitudes in all of _Europe_ , swept with desperate resolve through the dense forest and laughed with scorn at the pathetic irony of the hunter fleeing the prey. No, not prey. He could not think that about Christine, not any longer… could not think of her in any capacity at all.

Their paths must never again cross, lest he be driven to the jagged edge of reason and do that which would destroy them both. Not that he could call himself sane, but he thought he had mastered the art of absolute control more than a century ago. Yet in her presence, he could scarcely recall such blind precepts, such foolish logic…

He had no choice but to forget her.

But _how_ had she not forgotten him?

She called him by name. Even for a slayer, she should not have the ability to break free of his penetrating compulsion to forget. Never had he heard of that occurrence to one with his supreme power, not once in the four hundred years he walked the earth. When he left her insensible on her bed, with grim purpose he had wiped the heated incident from her mind as well as all previous clandestine meetings with him, or so he'd thought. Her most recent words proved she'd been invulnerable to his defensive machinations, as she had also thrice proved resistant to his hypnotic lure – perhaps making her the most dangerous of her kind, since she did not follow the established precedent for a slayer…

Since he had such minimal control over her mind, and even _that_ slim contact could be broken.

He certainly proved unresistant to her lure, again kissing her, this time with the bottled up passion he carried for her these two damnable weeks.

Her mouth had been so soft, so sweet, her response to him so uninhibited - so wanting. Proof that she possessed true desire that was wholly without manipulation. Desire to be _with him._

Briefly his eyes fell shut, his hand clenching into a tight fist at his side. Beneath the leather glove that covered his perpetually chill skin, the ring of his father's pressed hard into his flesh. He despised the small circlet of the gold manacle for all it represented but never could he remove it from his cold dead finger. Not if he wanted to live.

He laughed dryly at the irony – or at least live as other mortals do…

His thoughts returned to the slighted woman he left behind.

His thirst for her exceeded what was customary – he _ached_ for Christine in every respect. _Hungered_ for her to see what little of the man remained behind the monster, if indeed there existed one scrap – God, _for once_ yearned to touch and be touched with tenderness and in passion. Freely and without reserve or the force of compulsion. To seize her willing body and take her into his bed. And in her innocence, she would have succumbed. It was made clear from her bold approach and keen response to his vehement kiss that she did not yet understand his vile nature or her true calling – both of them reprehensible.

Would that she might never know.

He could still taste her…could still see her face aglow from her mad dash to catch up to him, later flushed with passion from their kiss - wreathed by wispy tendrils of curls that had escaped her long thick braid. Could still observe the angry sparkle in her eyes as they accused him, and later the wondering desire that filled their mink-brown depths.

By the profane gods, how he wanted her…

It failed to matter. He could not have her.

Had history not taught him that truth through the tragic end of his father's treacherous friend, the beast who'd begun this vicious cycle of gruesome violence, and all due to the one woman he had loved and lost?

A woman would not be his downfall too! And certainly he did not _love_ her – he _could not_ love her! Monsters did not have the capacity for such weakness as to love…

Tell that to the withered corpse of his father's contemptible friend.

The Count lowered his head and picked up his pace within the mollifying shadows of the burgeoning night, recalling his visit with the detestable uncle undeserving of the title of earl. It had been a mistake to accept this most recent invitation to visit Montmarte, a mistake daily to watch Christine from the shadows this fortnight past and covet what he could never have. Despite his obscene wealth, Erik had nothing to offer but a face to conjure demons that was maliciously paired with a curse to frighten angels.

He sighed in weary despair. The days would follow their courses; the seasons would bloom and wither; the years and the decades would whisper past until her presence was no more than ash buried beneath the soil.

And still he would walk alone…

Let this at last be the end of it.

The whispers of the forest mocked him. Or were the taunts inside his mind?

 **xXx**

"I am so grateful you agreed to come, Lotte. I think you'll find the village much changed from when you last saw it."

Christine sighed at his persistent choice of a childish nickname, at her eventual surrender to Raoul's invitation, at the whole wretched world in general.

She still did not understand what she'd done to warrant the Count's bizarre change in attitude toward her. One moment he rebuffed her, the next he rebuked her, and then without warning, he set her soul ablaze…

He was but a man, a man who made her senses smolder with no more than a look or the whisper of his touch. But he seemed to prefer the role of Ghost, clearly considering his mask not enough of a barrier behind which to hide. Disappearing and reappearing at will, leaving her shaken and nonplussed and altogether at a loss.

Never had she received a kiss of such desire…

And never had she desired a kiss more passionately.

Her heart soared then fell when just as violently as his kiss had come, he fiercely rejected and left her adrift once more, without understanding his reason. Again standing alone.

Nor had her great uncle wasted a moment's time to inform her of his meeting with the Count cel Tradat, enlightening Christine as to his reason for being there. In as few curt words as possible, the Count had told the earl he entertained no interest in Christine and possessed no wish to form a union of marriage, after which he abruptly made his excuses and left.

To hear such words had wounded, more deeply than she'd thought possible, but better she know his feelings now.

His frequent disregard of her own feelings unsettled her, but she would not play the fool and seek him out again. She would confront each day with what it would give, and in time, she would forget about the irascible Count. At least, that's what she told herself and what she desperately hoped would happen.

Three days had elapsed since their brief, explosive encounter, and Christine was eager to leave the foreboding halls of Montmarte, if only for one evening. Lucy had been quiet and unreceptive to conversation, often sitting in a chair and staring out the window while holding one of her dolls close. At least the girl appeared to heed Christine's warning to stay indoors at night, for which Christine knew relief, often peeking into the bedchamber to see her younger cousin fast asleep before finding refuge in her own bed. Nor had the earl bothered Christine with the demand to meet any more potential and unwanted suitors, thank God for that. In fact, her uncle had not bothered her at all, save to tell her of his brief meeting with the Count.

Determined to focus only on the present, Christine set her sights out the small window of the carriage.

The village had drastically altered from the night of Samhain. That decadent celebration had taken place on its outskirts and not within the main region, so if Raoul had not told her so, Christine could not be sure it was the same habitation. Now it resembled a normal shire with narrow dirt roads and wooden buildings painted various shades of dusky greys and greens, most of them three stories in height and topped with tile roofs, though she noticed a few of the smaller buildings were thatched. Townsfolk wandered the streets, as did the occasional livestock, usually under supervision of their handlers. The distant forest surrounded three sides, a glimmer of pale silver on the horizon suggesting the North Sea.

Raoul took her into a building with a sign proclaiming it to be The Hogshead Pub.

"The ambience leaves much to be desired, but the food is surprisingly palatable," he said as he opened the door for her to precede him.

Loud and boisterous could well describe the patrons of the establishment, mostly male villagers who sat at a long bar and at small tables clustered throughout. The few women Christine spotted wore dirty aprons beneath their full bosoms displayed to the point of immodesty – clearly the barmaids. The lighting was dim, with candles anchored high along the walls and lamps hanging from the infrequent hook.

Raoul shouldered his way toward a table at the back, one arm around Christine in a protective measure. Most of the patrons were immersed each in their own private conversation, but there were a few men who sent leering stares Christine's way.

It was nothing to which Christine was unaccustomed, the areas to dine at the Opera House full of bawdy cast and crew members, some of them now and then far into their cups. So when Raoul apologized and suggested perhaps he shouldn't have brought her to such an establishment, Christine smiled and reassured him.

A barmaid approached to take their order, nearly sitting in Raoul's lap as close as she stood to him. Her cousin had some trouble lifting his eyes from her cleavage, but Christine could hardly blame him since the brassy young woman practically pushed her bosom in his face when she brought their order to the table and bent low to set down two mugs of ale.

The brash barmaid winked at him in parting, and Christine rolled her eyes a little, tucking into her platter of braised potatoes and peppery sausage with gusto. Being absent from Montmarte had improved her appetite, though certainly nothing was wrong with the food at the manor. But it was difficult to enjoy the cuisine when it so often felt as if a stone had settled inside her stomach, with regard to all she must endure there.

"I apologize for that."

"Oh, Raoul, stop." Christine shook her head, not bothered in the slightest. "It's not like anything I haven't seen before. I grew up in the theater, if you recall, and every corner I turned…" Despite her bold words, she blushed. "Well, there was very little privacy, and many did not care to use what modest amount was made available." It wasn't uncommon to glimpse a couple in various stages of ardent embrace in the shadows of a corridor, and some of the more shameless thespians and crew did not even trouble themselves with seeking out the shadows.

She frowned as she thought again of that breathless night with the Count in her bedchamber, what she once supposed all a dream...and the ardent kiss they had shared outdoors birthed a plethora of rousing feelings that would be best to ignore, to forget...

Blast! Why could she not stop thinking about him?

"Christine, I did not encourage her advances."

"No matter," she assured, grateful for conversation to divert her rebellious thoughts. "There is no reason you can't have a little fun."

"Christine!"

At his scandalized shock, she felt a bit ill at ease. She was still an innocent in all the ways that mattered, but her ears had nightly burned with the frequent accounts of the brazen chorus girls who enjoyed sharing their exploits with the other dancers who dwelt within the dormitories, Christine in their number.

"It really doesn't bother you at all, does it?" Raoul sounded and looked quite dejected.

"I don't wish for my presence to be a disadvantage to your social amusements."

"Good God – you make me sound like some ne'er-do-well out to fraternize with all the ladies!"

She laughed and took a sip of ale. "Hardly that, Raoul. You're still the sweet, charming young Vicomte who fetched my scarf from the sea. I simply don't want to get in the way of any plans you might wish to make."

He covered her hand lying on the table with his. "You are _never_ in the way, Christine. Don't you know that?"

The intent look in his eyes and the firm pressure of his hand on hers gave Christine a modicum of discomfort. She slipped her fingers free of his.

Thankfully a second barmaid took that moment to approach, Madame Floozy nowhere in sight. Dressed as suggestively as the other woman, she nevertheless did not flaunt her ample wares in Raoul's face. This woman was younger with reddish-brown hair and a worried expression on her lightly freckled face. Her green eyes were anxious.

"You are the Vicomte de Chagny?" she half whispered, half spoke in a mild brogue.

He looked at her in some confusion. "I am."

"Lily told me you're the one what looks for information about the murders. I'm Minette…Rowan is – was – my man." Her eyes grew moist with tears which she blinked away, swiping her fingertips beneath her lashes. "He was killed nigh unto a month ago – drained of blood 'til his skin was a sickly grey, his throat nearly torn out – just like them others, and not a drop on the ground 'neath where he lay." She sniffled and searched for a kerchief which she withdrew from inside her corset to dab at her eyes. "There's a woman what lives on the other side of the forest near where Rowan was found. I think she kens what happened."

"Why do you suspect she was involved?"

"Not involved, mind you – just knows things, of spirits and such. She sees them things that are peculiar and reads the cards..."

Her eyes lifted beyond them, and Christine noticed the sour look the stout man behind the bar gave Minette. Quickly the girl collected Raoul's empty tankard.

"I canna speak of this now. I must get back to work. Charlie, that's the owner, don't like us talkin' to customers 'less it brings him coin." She hesitated, and Raoul took the bait, fishing a few shillings from his drawstring pouch and handing the coins to the girl. She snatched them up, tucking them deep in her cleavage. "Take the beaten path by the old pond a-ways into the forest. She lives in a small cottage. Name's Dora. And please, mister, find the vile monster who done that to my poor Rowan…" The girl hurried away.

The thought of food no longer appealing, Christine stared daggers at Raoul. He caught her glare.

"I swear to you, I didn't plan this. I had no idea she would seek me out."

His expression was in earnest, and she found it difficult to doubt him. Still, the evening was ruined with such grisly talk of the killings.

"Promise that you'll take me back to Montmarte before going on your quest to see Dora."

She had no desire to become part of his little witch hunt, as well he knew.

"Of course, but as long as we're on the subject…"

She tensed, curling her fingers in her skirts, and set down her fork.

"I think we should _change_ the subject."

He sighed. "There is just one matter…"

Of course. There always was. Wishing she could ignore him, Christine took a long swallow of ale.

"What do you know of the Count cel Tradat?"

She set her mug down with a slight bang and stared, hoping she had heard wrong.

"Pardon?"

Wishing to elude all thoughts of the irascible man who haunted her mind day and night, those were the last words she expected to hear from her cousin.

"Why do you ask such a question?"

"There was a witness at one of the slayings. A boy. He said the beast had the form of a man, was rather tall, and wore a cloak and a hat…"

Christine stared at him in incredulous disbelief. "And so naturally you suspect the Count? You believe he's the only man to own such items? Oh, Raoul please." She gave a scornful laugh. "If it was a boy as the witness, _any_ man would seem tall and surely there are many tall men wandering about the district."

The implication made was preposterous – what it seemed he was saying – and she leaned closer so as not to be overheard and lumped in with his fantastical idiocy.

"Tell me you do not _actually believe_ that the Count is your legendary beast of the night?"

"You've spent time in his company, which I'm told is a rarity for him. He is secretive, prefers not to mingle with others. Surely he might have told you something that could help?"

She didn't know whether to laugh in mildly amused contempt at his outlandish ideas or cry in frustration that no matter how hard she tried not to think of the man, he found a way to appear in her mind or in what should be pleasant conversation. She settled for a different comfort, one with which she wasn't familiar and took up her tankard, downing the rest of her ale in several rapid swallows, noting Raoul's shock as she did. She had never been raised a genteel lady, far from it, and was infinitely tired of both he and their great uncle trying to pound her into a slot that didn't fit her repertoire of life. She was a budding singer and a passable dancer and she wanted nothing to do with the nobility!

With no napkin provided for their meal, she settled for wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and glared at him. The quick refreshment helped to relax her bones, and she inhaled a steadying breath.

"As I have told you countless times, I have no desire to involve myself in your little horror games."

"They're hardly games, Christine –"

"BUT - I will give you one sound reason why your insane hypothesis doesn't hold true for the Count," she continued as if he'd never spoken. "You said that your foul creatures cannot exist by the light of day – is that correct?"

"Vampires burn to ash if the sunlight hits them," he agreed. "It's written in the journals."

Christine rolled her eyes at that, but went on with her defense of their masked neighbor. "Well, then, there's your proof. He came to visit Montmarte a few days ago, or did Uncle not tell you? I, myself, ran across his path. He was coming from the manor and it was just going on sunset, what sun there was – but it was definitely _day_ light."

Raoul's expression deflated, as if he was actually disappointed.

"Are you quite certain?"

The early evening sky had been overcast, but she recalled how the luminescent gray light brought out pale glimmers in the Count's eyes that seemed composed of all shades of gold.

"Yes, of course, I am. I was there." As it always did when she thought of their last meeting, his heated kiss rose up prevalent in her thoughts. Disgusted by this supper that was supposed to help her temporarily forget all those troubles left behind, she scooted back in her chair and stood. "I'd like to go home, please. I feel a headache coming on…"

"Christine, I didn't mean to upset you. I wish to help the unfortunate victims, yes, and to prevent further killings. But this night was supposed to be a conciliation dinner for last week, when we went riding. I hate it when you're angry with me."

She sighed at his boyish admission, his noble intentions hardly appeasing her scant endurance with the sole topic of which he was so fervent, but she had no wish to argue further. She'd not been lying when she said her temples had begun to pound.

"Stay," he cajoled, his blue eyes pleading. "Finish your supper. We will return to Montmarte immediately afterward, I promise. Please, Christine…" He reached out to touch her hand.

She hesitated, then sank back to her chair. "Maybe another mug of ale."

The brew was bitter, she preferred a sweet vintage of wine, but the ale did help ease the tension and another tankard might help relieve the ache in her head.

He looked uncertain by her request, but motioned a barmaid over and ordered another round.

A quarter hour later according to Raoul's pocket watch, they were again on the forest road leading out of the village. The skies had darkened considerably with the approach of nightfall. Christine did not miss Raoul's nervous glances to the window in the past few minutes.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked after his fourth glance toward the dark trees.

"I'm not certain…"

No sooner were his words uttered than the carriage came to a sudden halt and one of the horses gave a loud whinny.

"What the devil…" Raoul moved his hand to open the door, hesitated, and glanced at Christine. "Stay here."

Still he waited, seeming to come to a decision, and pulled back the edge of his cloak and frock coat. Sewn into the lining were thick bands of leather that held three weapons in place. A dagger, a stake, and a mallet. He grabbed one at random, handing the dagger over to her by the handle.

She inhaled in exasperation. "Raoul, _really_ –"

" ** _Just take the damn thing!_** "

At his uncharacteristically curt order, she blinked in astonishment and took the ivory hilt.

"You know how to use it if need be," he said, his voice a shade softer. "But no matter what you hear, _stay inside the carriage_."

Before she could respond, he slipped outside and closed the door firmly behind him.

Christine clutched the dagger in both hands on her lap, almost as a prayer, with the blade directed outward. Her anxious gaze went to the window and the misty darkness beyond…

And a distant pair of eyes that glowed red in the night.

xXx

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 **A/N: And so, let the games begin… ;-)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thank you so much for your continued interest and reviews! :) (to the guest reviewer - I will fix that error about the grandmother soon! You are 100% correct (I am so not good with family trees) - Thanks for your keen eye! :) And now...**

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 **IX**

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Christine sat rigid on the narrow bench seat, clutching the ivory hilt of the familiar dagger. She inhaled sharply at the fearful vision outside the small window, of eyes that gleamed as red as rubies, then exhaled a tremulous breath when seconds later they were gone.

Had it been a trick of her imagination? A product of emotional exhaustion? Too much ale?

There was no light cast in that direction to reflect such an eerie glow, as a cat's eyes shone when lamplight was directed a feline's way - but what beast had eyes of blood?

From outside the thin walls came a vicious, feral growl, followed by a weak cry for help.

She tried to breathe, tried to think. She did not believe it to be Raoul – the voice was too gruff – and Christine desperately wondered what to do. Raoul told her to stay put, but it felt cowardly to remain shut away inside when she might offer aid to a wounded soul in distress, and she _did_ have a weapon that she had learned to wield in defense. Swallowing over a dry throat, she put her hand to the latch, though she quaked in her laced boots with what she would find beyond the fragile safety of the carriage.

When all became eerily silent, she opened the door a tentative crack.

"Raoul," she whispered. "Are you there…?"

Not a sound, save for the wind stirring the branches and the nervous snuffles and whinnies of the horses.

Fighting down every instinct that bade her shut the door and remain within, Christine opened the door wide enough to carefully climb down. With the dagger gripped in one hand, she stood fixed in place, uncertain of what to do next.

"Raoul?" she half-whispered, glancing toward the driver's seat where a lantern hung suspended. Her heart froze to a lump of ice in her breast to see the bulky shape of the driver slumped across the seat.

Wounded.

Or _dead_ …?

Perhaps they'd become victims of lawless highwaymen - thieves that preyed on the wealthy who traveled on secluded stretches of lonely roads.

"I am armed," she called into the darkness then wondered at the intelligence of attracting attention her way. Apprehensively she stepped closer to the lantern and poor Mr. Findley, though to illuminate herself to unseen villains surely was also a step in the wrong direction.

On the heels of that thought, a growl rumbled nearby, low and deep, seeming to vibrate maliciously all around her. Terrified, she glanced in every direction, unable to discern where the beastly noise was coming from.

That was certainly no highwayman!

A vicious hiss came from another direction, and what sounded like a blade clanked against another. Twice. Three times. Another wounded cry, this one more distant…

Unable to see anything beyond the thick, swirling mist and invasive darkness, Christine backed toward the door. From where had such a dense fog come? Its presence hardly seemed natural, but that was the least of her concerns.

A horrendous shriek split the air, followed by the heavy thuds of footfalls that grew in volume, coming directly toward her…

"Raoul?!" she screamed then turned – to see a pair of glowing red eyes advance swiftly through the cloud of mist.

In terror, she whirled about and jumped inside the carriage. The dagger clattered to the boards as she slammed the door shut and held it closed tightly with both hands. Whatever fiend tried to attack from the other side vigorously struggled to wrench the handle from her frantic grasp, and Christine held fast with a strength she never knew she possessed. Her eyes fell shut as silently she begged for help from above, struggling to form the whispered petition dear Mama Valerius had taught her as a child.

"Our Father who art in heaven, who a-art in heaven…" She took in shuddering breaths, forcing her mind to connect with her voice and form the proper words. "Hallowed be thy name, th-thy kingdom c-come, thy will be d-done…"

Suddenly all resistance stopped, the handle gone still. Christine tearfully stared at the door, not trusting the abrupt stillness.

In the next instant she was thrown back as the carriage violently rocked to one side, then to the other – as if the attackers intended to shake her loose from the closed conveyance.

She crouched on the floor, clinging to the seat for balance, her protective hold on the latch gone. Her terrified gaze lifted to the window, and she gasped in horror again to see the gleaming red eyes, directly outside the carriage.

A ferocious snarl rent the air, freezing her already chilled blood. More than one growl answered – when suddenly the carriage ceased with its violent rocking. The unmistakable sounds of hostile combat immediately commenced – blades clashing, ripping, snarling – seeming to come from both sides of the carriage.

 _"Dear God, what is happening?! Help us - please help us!_ "

Christine squeezed her eyes shut, her hold again tight on the hilt of the dagger, as prayers for safety poured from her lips and chaos reigned heavily all around.

The sudden stillness that came with her next trembling breath was just as frightening…

Twice the silence had proved a deceptive foe.

She stared hard at the door, waiting, watching, ready to grab the handle again if need be.

It began slowly to turn and she lunged for it, dropping the dagger to clutch the metal lever with both hands.

"Christine?" The latch jiggled beneath her hold. "It's me, Christine. It's safe. They're gone."

At the sound of Raoul's weary voice, she released the handle with a sob and, as the door swung open, burst out of the carriage into his calming embrace. She could not stem the tears from her ordeal, nor did she bother in the attempt. They rained down her cheeks, dripping over her jaw and against his neck.

"There, there, Lotte. You're alright now."

She would argue with that assessment if she had the presence of mind to do so.

"Was it…" She worked to gulp down a shaky breath and speak over her tears. "Was it thieves?" A vision of red eyes came to mind. "Wolves…?"

"I think you know."

His quiet response made her shut her eyes against such a horrific notion. She could not, _would not_ believe his mad insinuation.

It suddenly came to her knowledge that his cloak was wet in an area not drenched with her tears. Pulling back, she stared at him in concern. A gash had sliced through one side of his cloak, blood seeping from his coat sleeve.

"You're hurt?"

"It's only a graze."

She nodded in faint relief then remembered the driver.

"Findley – I think it must have been him that I heard cry out."

Raoul released her and drew close to inspect the driver.

"Dead, I'm afraid, poor sod. Neck's torn wide open."

 _Dear God_...

Christine gripped the open carriage door, certain her knees might soon give way.

"They came out of nowhere," Raoul said from above, "Sometimes they band together, especially the newly turned, and travel in small groups. I staked one. Come and see…" He jumped down from the driver's seat and walked a short distance. "What the hell…he was right there! They must have taken his corpse with them."

Christine's horrified mind couldn't take it all in; she had no idea what to believe. She had seen no one, no shapes of animals or men – nothing but those terrible red eyes in the mist, eyes that surely belonged to some wild, feral beast of the forest. She had heard the growls, heard the fighting…

"What happened to stop it?" she asked, her voice a slim thread.

"It's the oddest thing. Never seen it happen before. One of their kind turned on them. It must have been a beast of supreme power. They fled at his approach. It was too dark to see well, but I'm certain it was a man, if you can call such vile creatures men…"

Christine exhaled a weary sigh. "I think we should not delay to return to Montmarte and tell the earl about Findley. The poor man. Did he have a family?"

"If he did, I don't know about it."

The horses were naturally jittery, and Raoul moved toward the pair, speaking softly while trying to quiet them. Christine was amazed they had not taken off at a mad run, spooked as Mist had been and with far better reason.

With no manner in which to prevent the body from falling onto the road, Raoul wrapped Findley's head with his cloak, Christine assumed as a consideration to her shattered emotions, and placed the deceased inside the carriage. Raoul then climbed up and untied the reins the driver had had the foresight to secure and drove with Christine sitting tensely beside him on the narrow seat.

"They won't be back," Raoul assured grimly. "They never strike twice in the same night."

Christine had heard and endured enough. She could no longer bear to listen to any more of his dark tales. Nor did she release her tight hold on the dagger.

Thankfully her cousin must have realized her frenzied state of mind, for he said nothing more. The misty glow of moonlight washed the road ahead in a silver stream, but Christine found her attention nervously diverted to the dark trees, seeking any hint of what she had no wish to see again.

All remained calm, no more devilish eyes of ghastly red glowing in the night, no more unseen beasts growling beneath a cover of grey cloud and darkness. The fog had mostly dissipated the further the carriage took them, leaving only wispy tendrils to trace the night.

In the distance, above the trees, loomed what appeared to be two square towers, and with shock she realized whose home they passed.

Christine stared until what she could see of the castle slipped from view, once more setting her sights on the road before them.

Never had she wished so badly to see the glow of golden candlelight in the windows that told her they were nearing Montmarte.

xXx

The Count cel Tradat stormed into the foyer of his chill domicile that centuries ago he had ordered built. Swirling his heavy cloak from around his body he flung it to a high-backed chair of carved black oak. Blood spattered his clothing and in careless disgust, he quickly loosened the cravat from around his neck and tossed it as well as his frock coat to join the cloak.

"Gregor!"

His stride swift and true Erik took the stairs two at a time to his bedchamber. His manservant of forty some odd years hurried down the corridor to greet him as fast as his aging bones were able.

"Bring me a brandy – then draw me a bath."

"Very good, sir." His servant did not so much as flinch at the grisly sight that Erik made, long accustomed to coming upon such a scene. Gregor hurried off, while Erik stripped himself of the remainder of his clothing, letting it land where it may.

Standing naked in his bedchamber, he took account of his condition. A deep gash along his left upper arm to his elbow would soon heal as if it never existed. Four slashes ran a few inches beneath his collarbone, nowhere near his heart, the fools too new to fight with any true skill.

Normally, having come upon the assault of an unfortunate villager, he would have walked on and left the motley band to their sick amusements, the Count once having sought the same in his age-old abhorrence for mankind. But when he heard _her_ voice cry out in the night and saw _her_ alight from the carriage, trembling as she held a dagger ready in defense, the shine of her frightened tears and pallid face caused a white-hot fury to surge within his veins such as he'd never before known. Many times through the centuries he had executed terrible rage and been violent in his wrath – but never on account of the fate of a mortal.

Four hundred years of wisdom taught him to master skills both humankind and those of his species only dreamed to have. As a royal and one of the eldest, he had greater power than most and certainly over those pathetic new foundlings. He had soon cleared the area of the creatures that sought her death – had counted six – none of them his creation. Gypsies by the look of them. Indeed, he had turned few mortals in his unnatural life, and all three were mistakes. Two of them now dead, one by his hand.

Of those foundling creatures that attacked her tonight, none had escaped his harsh judgment of eternal death. The idiot boy had slaughtered one of them, but the Count had absconded with the body when the fool's back was turned. He needed no slayer to obtain the proof of what must remain secret, and thereby stir the entire village to arms.

The wounds incurred to his flesh had been products of his negligence – distracted when he saw one of the fiends draw near the carriage door. She had withstood its strength, preventing the fool's entrance, which was no surprise, given her own aberrant powers.

"Master…" Gregor came into the room. "You are wounded." He set down the tray with the bottle of brandy and a snifter. "I will fetch sustenance."

"Yes, Gregor, do that. But draw water for the bath first. Hot – very hot…"

Even without the necessary evil of ingesting blood, Erik would heal. Better to dispose of the injuries rapidly, the cut to his arm sliced near the bone and making the appendage difficult to move. No stranger to pain, he mechanically wrapped the offended arm with a gold damask cloth that covered a small table, to prevent more blood from dripping onto his Persian carpet, which to his disgust was likely ruined. He then donned his robe while he waited for Gregor's announcement that his bath was prepared, and poured himself a brandy.

As Erik drank, his thoughts went to the recent slayings over the past months, and he scowled.

He had hoped to dwell in this remote region, in this castle he had deserted over a hundred years ago, for at least another two decades, before necessity forced him to move. But the interloper was making his plans difficult, with such slipshod methods, forcing the need to venture into the night with extreme caution. By the ancient laws made to protect their kind from extinction, they were to kill only if necessary and feed in secret, using the power of compulsion for their victims to forget. Some mortals were made into pets by those who formed attachments, keeping them near to dwell in their homes and in their beds. Those who entertained more than a fondness for their pets often turned them at some point, to share a life together in union...

Before his discovery of her true nature, Erik had hoped for such a destiny with the fiery young singer, since he could never live life as a normal man. Yet the very idea of Christine Daaé as his pet, meek and obedient, made him dryly laugh.

She was flame and warmth and spirit, and he still remembered her eyes spitting fire at him as she softly and viciously scolded him at their last meeting – her winsome vibrancy leading him to kiss her as if to possess her. He did not want her cold as death and corpse-like such as he – no, he wanted a _living_ wife, to desire him of her own freewill, and breathe warmth into his dark frozen soul, if it were indeed possible…

Such were his ruminations as he later bathed in water hot enough to scald mortal flesh, and though for scant moments he felt its warmth, his ice cold body would never retain it.

His mind lingered pensively over their conversation and her accusation concerning Lucy as his lover. He snorted in derision at such an appalling thought.

While it was true that upon his return to the castle two years ago he secretly made Lucy's acquaintance inside the maze, singing to her and telling her stories, he'd kept himself well hidden. Just as once, over a decade ago, he had done the same for another small lonely girl in another part of the world. That small, quiet girl in the chapel had called herself Lotte. After several months, upon near discovery, he had ceased with the weekly ritual of song that gave mutual comfort – his need to leave the city he'd made into his home vital.

Lucy had been older, but still little more than a youth when he first approached, a simpleton who thought him one of the dark Fae. Despite growing into a lovely young woman, she yet possessed the mind of a child, and he did not once consider her more than that. Lucy was a gullible innocent he never made into his victim, perhaps because of her naive vulnerability, perhaps because he himself had once been a child preyed upon by those stronger who sought his destruction...

With any child, he drew the line, and that led him to think of the mistake made over a century ago, with the one small girl he turned in an act of pity.

The Count sighed, taking note of the clear water that had altered to a murky red. How fitting for the monster to bathe in both his blood and the spilled blood of his enemies. He lifted the goblet rimmed in gold to his lips, containing sustenance of the same dark red liquid, and drank deeply. Not once did he glance at his deep wounds, but he felt the curative effects immediately.

Once he emptied his glass, Erik stood to his feet in the tub of black marble, upending a basin of clear hot water over his head to wash all traces of the crimson matter from his now unmarked skin. Unmarked, save for the lashes from a whip he'd taken on his back as a boy. Those scars received before he had been plagued with the preternatural curse never left his flesh; nor did the wretchedness of his twisted face disappear, his punishment since birth.

Christine he could not have, Lucy he did not want, and he must forever keep his distance from Montmarte. After tonight, it was clear that Christine was in peril from his kind. If they discovered her to be a slayer, that danger was amplified. Recalling her accusatory words to him, perhaps little Lucy was in danger as well. To protect all of them, himself included, he must locate the rogue vampyre who of late had created a wretched army of newly turned villagers – and put an end to the rebellion.

xXx

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 **A/N: A little more of the mystery of Erik is cleared up…with a lot more to go. ;-) Hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews- hugs to each of you. And now...**

* * *

 **X**

Over the course of the next three days, water poured from the sky and soaked the ground making any potential outdoor excursions a misery to be avoided. For the first time since she arrived at Montmarte, Christine did not mind being held prisoner to the weather. The dark halls and empty chambers might be gloomy, the present company often nonexistent, usually regrettable, but at least the cheerless manor provided safety that the ongoing peril of the outdoors could not offer.

Immediately after the attack, on their return to the manor, she sought out information about the man Findley while Raoul went in search of her uncle to break the news of his lost driver. Only she and Raoul stood at the gravesite in the drizzling rain on the morning of his burial, the poor man having no family, and Christine thought it despicable that the earl made no appearance out of the respect due him, as his driver of over fifteen years.

Raoul had been mistaken. She was not fearless. But neither was she willing to run from what she did not understand.

And certainly he was mistaken in what he believed to be genuine.

Since that dreadful night of terror, Christine carefully played over in her mind, again and again, the memory of all that transpired. She forced herself to recall details and attempt to come up with a satisfactory solution where none was to be found.

She eliminated the possibility of wolves. Those glowing orbs of death had been at a level with the top of the carriage window – so unless such beasts were enormous, standing at least five feet tall, wolves did not fit the pattern. Nor did she know anything of their mannerisms but doubted for all the strength they possessed that they had the ability to violently rock a carriage nearly off its wheels.

Bears perhaps had been their assailants. That made more sense for the rocking and the growling, but did their eyes glow blood red? Then, too, were bears capable of making serpentine hissing sounds? She had never seen such a beast up close, not a living one. La Carlotta Gudicelli had a white bearskin rug in her dressing room at the Opera House, but its eyes were polar blue.

Perhaps their nocturnal foe had been a beast common to these parts of which she had no knowledge? An animal escaped from a circus perhaps?

Christine turned in frustrated distress from the miserable view of the bleak day outside her window. She did not relish spending an unbearably slow revolution of the clock holed up inside her room. Nor did she have any desire to encounter members of her eccentric family. The earl, with his chilling smirk, no doubt with regard to the dreadful future he was secretly planning for her, made her shudder in wary distaste whenever their eyes should meet…Raoul, with his tenacity to corner her and speak of that night in an attempt to force her to admit what she would never say, grated on her every nerve. And then there was Lucy.

Dear Lucy…

Since the night in the maze, she had become more withdrawn, if that were possible. Often her young cousin sat in the window seat, her pale face forlorn, the color of her cheeks having drained away, and whispered to the doll she cradled while staring out the diamond panes at the endless rain. Her exuberant appetite had waned, and a physician had been sent for the previous morning, when Lucy had been unusually difficult to wake, her uncle obviously worried as well. But after a brief examination, the man found nothing inherently wrong, stating a mild case of dyspepsia and, out of the earl's hearing in an aside to her maid, that Lucy was simply being Lucy, which had earned him a conspiratorial nod.

Christine began to pace, restless and upset. She cast yet another glance toward the wardrobe then away again. She could go downstairs to the library and find a novel to try to lose herself in. Or perhaps she should ring for a maid to bring her something to eat, though it was two hours until supper…

Oh bother.

She approached the tall armoire and opened one of its twin doors. Momentarily diverted from her reason for doing so, she caught sight of and took the spangled mask from the high shelf, her thoughts becoming entwined in the night of the festival.

She had not worn a full costume, unable to afford one, but agreed to let Raoul purchase the mask for her from a craftsman's stall in the village. Though her dress had been navy with silver-gray piping, she had chosen the crystal white, and not the deep blue that matched more closely. She'd worn no wings, but upon tying the sparkling mask around her head felt a little more like an angel.

And Erik had called her his Angel…

Just as once, long ago, another man had done, a man she had then erroneously thought her true angel.

She sighed at the bittersweet memory that still brought tears to prick her eyes, and quickly set the mask back in a corner of the dark shelf.

As a lost, lonely child, newly orphaned, she had clung to the radiant hope her unseen Angel had given, and just as suddenly had ripped away, thrusting her back into the echoing void of darkness.

Disgusted that he still had such an intrinsic hold over her emotions, she callously swiped a beginning tear away with her fingertips.

Why, _why_ now was she thinking of him! Of _either_ of them?

The Count cel Tradat did not wish to be near her, and neither, apparently, had her Angel of Music.

When she finally divulged her closely guarded secret to Meg one empty night in a moment of quiet despair, at first her friend had been incredulous, then suspicious – certain that one of the cast or crew had been toying with Christine. Or perhaps, more frightening, someone with an unbalanced mind had stalked her steps, with the intent of luring her into danger.

Christine had nodded in silent agreement, as expected, not wishing to be put in a position of defending what she failed to understand. But at no time over the ten years following did she believe such harsh assessments to be true.

She simply lacked the pure voice the Angel required and the skilled companionship the Count sought after. The Angel demanded perfection; the Count reviled innocence. She had been unable to please either man with her awkward naiveté.

Christine let out a disgusted hiss of breath. This would never do. She simply must cease with festering in self-pity. Her life had been enriched before she'd arrived and met the taciturn castle dweller of Berwickshire, and certainly would attain satisfaction again. Once she escaped this dark corner of the continent and found her way back to the glamorous lights of Paris, once she resumed her place on stage in the career for which she had been trained, all would again be well.

She knelt to collect the box from its dark niche beneath her dresses. Taking it back to the bed, she stared at the scratched and dusty lid a long time before pulling away the cover. She could not bring herself to collect the one item sure to give her equal amounts of joy and pain, so picked up the oldest journal instead.

The cover of the dark brown leather was unmarked, cracked and peeling, the pages held together by thin pieces of frayed cording knotted at the left edge. Just handling it she worried that it might crumble into powder.

She slipped up onto the bed, rearranging her skirts about her legs and making herself comfortable for a lengthy read. Setting the book down on the coverlet before her, she carefully opened to the first page.

The calligraphy was faded, the looped words somewhat difficult to decipher. She gasped a little to see the date, and note that the journal was over a hundred years old.

 ** _The fifth day of October, in the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and thirty one -_**

 ** _The accounts within these pages I, Heinrik Van Helsing, swear to be the unabridged truth thusly experienced within the scope of my amateur accomplishments. The horror of the reality of what shall be revealed should not be shared or undermined, and as such cannot be expressed to those beyond the select few, namely, those chosen of the Van Helsing bloodline, as determined throughout each generation._**

 ** _I am informed that the terrors that inflict our family began two score and ten years ago, on the evening that my grandfather, Gabriel Van Helsing, entertained for dinner an associate from the country of Romania, the latter being a well-respected man with an abysmal story to tell…_**

Christine read on, intrigued to learn the mystery despite her misgivings. Her eyebrows lifted higher the further she read, and she couldn't help the groan of a chuckle that escaped her throat.

Despite his noteworthy introduction, Heinrik had little talent with entertainment of the written word. Instead of delving right into the mystery of the Romanian guest, he wandered back to his current life, every few paragraphs straying to emphasize his inadequacies, roaming hither and thither between one day and the next then back again. After three entire pages of detailing every establishment he had visited and why, none of those activities detrimental to the stated subject of the journal, along with his pedantic shortfalls as one of the so-called chosen, Christine closed the book.

If Raoul thought to gain her sympathies through this drivel, he was sadly mistaken. Still, _something_ within these journals had convinced him to abstain from sound reason and embrace the incredible.

She leaned the back of her skull against the headboard. She needed liquid refreshment. A glass of spirits to dull her senses might be more beneficial for the seemingly endless dark cloud she felt caught under, but she settled for ringing the maid for a soothing cup of hot tea instead.

A short time later Daisy entered with a tray bearing a teapot, cup, and a platter of iced biscuits. Christine thanked her, but as the maid set Christine's small repast upon the end table, the china clattered, the maid's movements fraught with tension.

"Daisy…?" Christine looked curiously at the normally bubbling young woman who had been morosely silent the entire time. "Is anything the matter?" She clutched the bedpost in alarm. "It isn't Lucy?"

"No, Miss. Lucy's the same as always." Daisy glanced at Christine, then away again.

"The Vicomte then?"

"No, Miss, though he asked your whereabouts this morn and last night, when you didn't show to supper."

The feigned headache had been her excuse, and thankfully her great uncle had not demanded her appearance at the table.

"I don't think I feel able to attend tonight either. Please, make my excuses."

"As you wish, Miss. The Vicomte did ask that I pass a message along to you - he said it is quite urgent that he speak with you soon."

Christine nodded in resignation. She supposed that she could not evade Raoul's tiresome persuasions forever. Perhaps he would be satisfied when she told him that she'd begun reading the journals.

The girl continued to look troubled as she gathered the breakfast dishes, now and then darting an anxious glance Christine's way.

"Daisy." Christine stopped the girl's exit with a hand to her arm. "What is troubling you? Tell me, has something happened?"

Indecision was written plainly on her round face. "I shouldn't say…" she fidgeted, "though hang it all – 'tisn't right such things be kept from you. You should know, Miss. You've been kind, and it's just not right what's being done to you…" A flicker of apprehension clouded her eyes. "Though if he finds I misspoke, it'll be the end of my time here, and like as not my mum's too…"

"Please, if it concerns me, tell me what you know. I won't betray you, Daisy."

"Well, Miss," she said glancing behind her as if she expected someone to barge through the door, "James, he's the footman, was telling us servants that he was with his lordship early this morning while his lordship was writing a letter. He seemed quite pleased as he went about it, congratulating himself on a task well done. He mentioned your name and that soon his worries would be over and you wouldn't be his problem any longer. Sorry, Miss." The girl seemed genuinely remorseful. "He gave James the letter to be delivered – it was addressed to Lord Lomax."

The very name sent a shudder up Christine's spine.

"The Vicomte, is here now?"

"Yes, Miss. Last I saw he was speaking with his lordship."

"Thank you, Daisy." Christine walked to the door.

"But, Miss - your tea."

"It'll keep." But the need to speak with Raoul would not, and if _his lordship_ was there, well, Christine had a few choice things to say to him as well, not that it would do her any good. Not that anything she could say or accomplish here would do her any good…

On her descent down the stairs, she ran across the parlor maid, Florence.

"Oh, Mademoiselle Daaé, the Vicomte is quite urgent with his wish to see you. He's in the front parlor."

That would be his third attempt today. She thanked the maid and went to join him.

Raoul turned from the window as she entered the room. Lines of worry creased his brow, his usually bright eyes clouded with the same emotion. He slipped a hand into the pocket of his green velvet frock coat, tucking away the paper he'd held.

"Thank God, there you are. I trust you're feeling better?"

The question, though polite, was distant, spoken by rote and lacking earnest concern. His mind clearly lay elsewhere.

She curbed her desperation to share with him what she'd just heard and laid a gentle hand on his sleeve.

"Raoul, what's wrong? Something is obviously troubling you."

"Christine, I'm sorry, but I must go."

"Go?"

"Yes. Today. I must leave for Bordeaux. I received word; My grandmother lies on her deathbed and is asking for me." He shook his head. "The old biddy outlived two husbands, three sons and one daughter." He spoke the words softly, not out of disrespect but as an endearment. "She was as tough as the day is long. It's difficult to believe this day has actually arrived."

Christine swallowed hard, the urge to beg him to take her with him strong, however inappropriate. The family certainly didn't need a stranger underfoot during their time of mourning. After his refusal to accompany her to Paris, she did not truly believe Raoul would allow it should she have the effrontery to ask.

"I'm sorry, Raoul."

The soft words were sympathetic in their sincerity, but held a deeper meaning he did not yet fully understand.

He lifted his palms to cup her face. "Christine, my dear, I detest the idea of leaving you here to deal with matters alone, but I have no choice. I cannot say much, not at this time…" He pressed his lips together and blew forcefully through his nose as if something just occurred to him, "and with the present situation, I'm afraid those plans may have to wait. But you mustn't worry, Lotte. I have spoken with Uncle, and he has agreed not to pressure you into an unwanted marriage at this time."

His words held a trace of doubt that did nothing to assure her.

"You spoke with him today?"

"No, it was on the night of the ball. Why, have you heard something?"

She looked into his troubled eyes, the golden-brown lashes damp, and noted the weary set of his shoulders. She could not in all good conscience increase his burden. It no longer mattered anyhow.

She had decided.

"No, Raoul. Do not concern yourself over me. I will be fine." She kept her tone well-modulated, surprised her voice didn't tremble. "Go – take care of your family. Take care of yourself as well."

He looked at her intently a moment, clearly hesitant to leave her, then pressed his lips to her forehead.

"I will return as soon as I am able, Christine. I swear it."

She nodded with a faint smile. "Goodbye, Raoul."

He strode swiftly for the back entrance that was situated near the stable, and sadly she wondered if she would ever see him again.

With heavy steps, she ascended the stairs to her room and turned the key in the door.

She folded the napkin with the iced biscuits into a manageable bundle. Tying a large, pocket-like pouch above her petticoats and beneath her gown, she slipped the napkin inside it. She included her hairbrush and her lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchief that Meg had given her for her birthday.

The jewel-inlaid dagger she had never returned would be sorely needed, and she fashioned a belt for it from her woolen scarf, lacing it through the loop at the top of the sheath and tying it around her waist.

There was little left to do but wait until the household retired to their rooms for the night. With more than three hours of her vigil left to go, she would drive herself mad with all the reasons that she should not undertake this reckless venture. There were predators in the forest that could attack in a blind instant. The journey was long and treacherous and beset with the unknown. Yet it was the predator that lay in wait, set on destroying her future through a mockery of a marriage, that she feared the most.

Hoping to force her protesting mind into a lull, she reclaimed her ancestor's journal and settled down in a chair to read, bringing her cup of tea with her.

After several more pages of meandering back and forth also calling himself inadequate, at last his entries changed as he spoke of sightings and encounters. He never called those he wrestled with by the name Raoul used, instead referring to them as " _abysmal demons of the darkness_." Not to be taken in its literal context, surely. Enemies of Heinrik Van Helsing, yes, but only evil, predatory men with the skill of warriors. The mysterious dinner tale one of murder and betrayal, certainly, but nothing to do with the preternatural.

She read on, her opinion unchanging, until she heard the grandfather clock on the lower landing chime the tenth hour.

Her heart drummed against her ribs and she closed the cover. She replaced the ancient book in the box, moving to close the lid, then hesitated.

The pull was too strong.

She slipped her hand inside to retrieve her mother's journal, glancing at the leather cover only briefly before slipping it into the pouch beneath her gown. It was all she had of her mother, and she could not leave it behind.

Once she stowed the box away, she took her cloak from the wardrobe. The one item remaining, it was all she could manage, and she pulled it around her shoulders.

Without a backward glance, she slipped through the darkened manor and out into the night.

x

By the light of the lantern, she saddled Mist. She had carefully watched Raoul each time he saddled his horse, and relied on that now, choosing a man's saddle and not the sidesaddle to throw up over the horse's back. Knowing that no helpful platform would always be there to aid her in mounting, once she resisted him always tossing her up into the higher saddle by insisting she wanted to learn on her own, Christine felt riding astride was her only option.

She had planned for this night and memorized every detail, though managing on her own took longer than expected. With each squeak of leather, each buckle of a strap and jangle of harness, she glanced toward the entrance, fearful of being caught.

She supposed this made her a horse thief, but she had every intention of finding a way to return the horse once she arrived to Paris.

With her hand grasping the cinch near the horse's mouth, she led Mist from the stable and offered him a lump of sugar she had snatched from the tea tray on her way out of the bedroom.

Mist followed her lead like a docile lamb, with only a soft whicker and snort of breath. Christine hesitated, recalling her fall from this animal. She had not ridden since that day.

"Now Mist, you will be good, yes? It's just us now, but there's nothing to fear out there."

A lie most assuredly, and she hoped the belying tremor of her nervousness would not carry through to the horse. She patted his neck and took in a calming breath.

She had carefully watched Raoul mount each time they'd gone riding, and with her strong, dancer's legs felt she could manage this too. Tucking her skirts up, she set her foot in the stirrup and grabbed the saddle, propelling herself upward and swinging her leg around to the other side. Her mount was awkward and inelegant, but she landed with a rustled thud firmly on the saddle, and she breathed a relieved sigh at her success.

Taking the reins firmly in both hands, she stowed old childhood fears of the darkness into the nethermost region of her mind, and gently tapped her heels against Mist's flanks. To her relief, the gelding obeyed and walked toward the forest road, the only road that led to the village. From there, she would take the road that her stagecoach had taken on the day of her arrival, and leave this godforsaken corner of the world forever behind.

After the attack on this same road the previous week, her escape into the night was most assuredly reckless, but she would be more foolish to remain at Montmarte as a trapped pawn in the earl's contemptible schemes. With Raoul gone, she no longer had an ally to help her, and she didn't dare linger there another hour.

The perpetual shadows of day had deepened into the blackest shadows of night blending in with lighter shadows - all of them dark - the pale moon weakly providing what beacon it could as a guide. The torrential rains had at last ceased, the road slick with mud. Christine refrained from setting off at a gallop, her pulse madly thrumming the order to flee while she still could, but her inexperience in the saddle and the wretched condition of the road kept her at a sedate pace.

If the need presented itself, she could try to outrun any beast that might attack, and if that didn't work, she had the silver-bladed weapon that hung from her waist.

The forest of trees loomed thick and deep, dark and ghoulish on either side. She told herself that their imagined breaths and eerie groans was only the faint wind that stirred the branches. Nonetheless, she shifted the reins to one hand, placing the other on the hilt of her dagger.

This far into the thicket, she was almost blind with the darkness, barely able to see the road ahead, but Mist plodded on what to him must be a familiar path, and she felt grateful for the horse's insight.

After long minutes of traveling, she heard what sounded like a faint cry for help.

Christine pulled sharply on the reins, her fist tightly clutching the leather straps as a wave of stark fear caused her heart to thunder. Again the cry came, from somewhere ahead she thought, and nervously clenching the hilt she prodded Mist to proceed.

Her eyes had somewhat adjusted to the prevalent darkness, and soon she spotted a dark mass on the side of the road. As she drew close, fist tight around the dagger, she made out the mass to be a horse lying on its side. And with his legs trapped underneath, was a man.

Christine dismounted and hurried to the poor wretch's side, crouching down beside him. He clutched a large silver cross against his black shirt front. From the white collar at his throat she presumed him to be a man of the cloth. She couldn't see his face clearly, but the whites of his eyes shone in fear.

"Please, please," he whispered. "Find help! Before they come back…"

Struggling to push away the terror his words produced, she assured him she would. It took her a few attempts to mount properly, but soon she was again firmly in the saddle. She could not go back to Montmarte, no. Never back there. But the castle could not be far.

She kept her attention focused in the direction from which she had seen it while traveling by coach. A light mist began to fall and she pulled her hood over her head. At last, the ghostly turrets rose between the lofty trees, and she exhaled a thankful breath.

Soon she found the narrow length of road and approached the great monolith of Castle Dragan. Her eyes widened at the impressive sight. The pale stone stretched high and wide, the watery light of the moon casting the tall walls in a dim glow. Amid two square turrets, whose scalloped parapets she had seen at a distance, were three round towers of varying heights. Through several of the many tall, rectangular windows she saw a welcome orange glow, relieved the servants must still be about not to have doused the flames.

There was no moat, no drawbridge as she had read such castles contained, and no portcullis shielded her way to the set of towering doors either. Swallowing her apprehension, she dismounted, her feet landing with a splash. No stairs led upward to the main entrance, and she kept firm hold of the mare's cinch, unwilling to risk losing her only transport home.

After a slight hesitation, she raised her hand to the wolf's head knocker, giving the iron ring several heavy raps that reverberated through her hand. And she waited.

The door swung inward, the force of which made Christine take a shocked step back, but no servant stood there to greet her.

The sight of the man who loomed before her, eyes golden and glaring from behind his black mask, left her at a loss for words. His wide shoulders blocked the light from within.

"What the devil do you want?"

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Uh-oh...  
**

 **Next up: a** **confrontation and a revelation**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you for the continued interest and reviews! :) And now…**

* * *

 **Previously: Christine learned of the earl's plans to marry her to the repulsive Lord Lomax, and ran away in the night, to flee to Paris. In the forest, she came across a panicked and wounded priest. Vowing to help him, she took the path to the castle, hoping to seek aid there from a servant. Instead, it was the Count who answered her knock at the door...**

 **XI**

With barely concealed anger and frustration, the Count stared down at his uninvited guest.

Christine stared up at him with eyes, wide and uncertain, clearly startled to see him standing there.

Had _she_ not been the one to knock on _his_ door?

For endless days, as recently as mere minutes ago, the image of her face, of her voice had tormented his thoughts and set him at an irate pace from wall to confined wall. He had remained within his castle, working on endless diversions to purge all memory of her from his mind, just as he'd told her to do with him. And now, here she stood on his doorstep in the dark of night, looking so damnably innocent and beguiling and terrified.

Why the devil was she here?

She opened her mouth to speak, when the horse by her side gave a sudden loud, anxious whinny and wild toss of its head, trying to wrest itself from her hold.

Erik glanced toward the beast, unsurprised by the horse's reaction.

"Mist – calm down." Christine struggled to retain her hold on the bridle. "What's wrong with you? Oh, please, calm down."

If anything, the horse grew more agitated, wrenching its head harder in its desperation to free itself. And though the young woman valiantly struggled to calm the beast, using every bit of strength her small gloved hands and slender arms would give, her efforts were futile, as was her hold. The horse broke away with another crazed whinny and shot for the trees as if a predator were nipping at its heels.

"My horse!" Christine exclaimed, turning her eyes from the fleeing beast and back to Erik. "Oh, what am I to do _now_?"

"Tell me – _why_ are you here? _Again_ , in the dark of night. _Again_ , wandering alone." He drew a step closer, knowing full well his intimidating effect as her eyes widened even larger. "Have you a death wish, mademoiselle?"

She blinked up at him but held her ground. He noticed the quiver of her lip and the tears that glossed her eyes. The manner in which she tightly clenched her hands together in her skirts bespoke her agitation.

"I need your help," she said quietly, her words forceful.

She spoke so bravely, though her fear was palpable, and he felt an odd twinge high beneath his ribcage. He could not leave her standing there on his doorstep, looking so lost and alone - that much was apparent. Despite knowing he should not receive her presence, he opened the door wide enough for her to enter his domain.

"Come."

With no other sane choice, Christine entered through the doorway, watching as he closed the huge iron-studded door and dropped a heavy wooden bar into place. A little thrill of – fear? excitement? nervousness?- surged through her at the sight and sound. He swept past without a glance in her direction, and she followed, noting with surprise that they walked through an enclosed courtyard. Shorter buildings stood on either side of the pale stone edifice to which he led her, a monolith that towered before them. Two large stands with shallow bowls of fire shed dim golden light over the area and edged the foot of the three wide stairs.

He led her up them and through an equally set of wide doors – into a dimly-lit entry hall. Here, hooks were mounted to the rock walls, and suspended from two of them hung his cloak and his hat. A suit of armor such as a knight would wear stood in a far corner and ahead was another corridor leading into another chamber. There, she caught a glimpse of a stairway. Instead of walking toward it, they turned into a nearby corridor and walked on a short distance into a massive chamber that she thought must be the castle's equivalent to a manor parlor.

The furniture here was sparse and heavy, elaborately carved, the predominant colors of the room dark, chiefly black with splashes of startling crimson. A hearth stood in the middle of one wall, so high, she could step over the iron grille and walk inside it without the need to bend over. Exquisitely carved, the mantelpiece was rimmed with grey plaster and rock, the hue of the floor repeated in the irregular flagstones. Two rugs of plush fur lay spread in relief before the hearth and further into the room. Besides twin candelabras that flickered on two narrow tables at opposite ends of the high walls, the roaring flames from the open fireplace were the sole light in the room.

The spacious chamber was both captivating and intimidating, like its master.

He motioned to the solitary chair that stood close to the fire, as if its owner sought warmth. Christine slipped onto the high wide seat that resembled a throne. Nervously, she clasped the carved arms of ebony wood, her fingers wrapping around their graceful scrolls, hoping to disguise the tremble in her limbs. She shook as much from the damp and the cold as from her distress.

He stepped away, to one of the tables, and she heard the sound of liquid sloshing into a glass.

Her eyes lifted above the hearth, to the overmantel and a tapestry of red and gold that hung on the wall. Flanking each side were embroidered swords, crossed at the blades, much like the actual ones that hung on the wall on each side of the cloth. Her attention was captured by the coat of arms in the center – what she could see of it appearing to be a dragon amid twining roses that curled along scrolled edges…

Suddenly a proffered glass came into her line of vision. She accepted the drink, taking a small sip of the golden liquid that held a sharper bite than the brandy she had taken on the rare occasion. The burn aggravated her throat, even biting through to her nose, her eyes watering. She pressed her fingers to her neck, futilely to trap the unavoidable short coughing spell. But the acrid tonic flowed through her blood and warmed her to her toes.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The Count moved around the side of her chair to stand in front of her. He held no glass and crossed his arms over his broad chest in demand. It was then she became strongly aware that he wore no tailcoat or waistcoat, his shirtsleeves voluminous and tucked into dark narrow trousers. His raven hair was mussed, as if he'd run a tense hand through the fine strands more than once, and from beyond the sockets of his leather mask the fire that raged beside them was repeated in his eyes. Eyes that burned in demand.

He quite literally took her breath in a mix of awed fear and utter captivation.

"Now tell me, Miss Daaé, why are you here."

Reminded of her mission, she regarded him with urgent eyes.

"There is a man out there – in the forest - hurt and lying on the side of the road. His horse appears to have fallen on top of him."

When he made no move in alarm, not even the flicker of an eyelash in empathy or a wince of remorse, she stared at him in confusion.

"Did you not hear me? There's a man-"

"I heard." His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade. "And what is that to me?"

 _What is that to me?_

"He needs your help!" she said incredulously and felt the need to elaborate the urgency. "He is badly injured, lying helpless. He may well die -"

"With such injuries he is likely dead as we speak. And if he has managed somehow to escape the ferryman, doubtless Charon will find him soon."

She blinked in stunned disbelief at his callous disregard.

"You cannot possibly know that he is dead or that he will soon die! We must help him, to see that does _not_ happen. At least we must try!"

" _Must_ we?" His soft words held a note of derision. "By allowing fate to take its inevitable course, you may well be doing the feckless traveler a favor to let him expire in peace, rather than to live out his days in a pall of misery, as he surely would if his injuries are as grave as you consider."

Christine could not believe what she was hearing.

"What kind of monster are you?" The quiet words escaped her lips before she was fully aware of their existence, but by the narrowing of his eyes he had heard quite well.

"I am a realist."

"No, monsieur. What you are is _cruel_."

She set the glass on the stones and pushed herself from the chair, with the intent to walk past him and back to the entrance. He grabbed her by the crook of her arm, swinging her around to stop her, his hold firm above her elbow.

"Where the devil do you think you're going now?" he hissed.

"To find someone who's willing to lend aid since you obviously cannot be bothered." She lifted her chin in a weak attempt to stare him down, since he stood nearly head and shoulders above her. "Let go of me."

"And will you so foolishly walk along that stretch of dark road, as you no longer have a horse?" he clipped out, his jaw clenched. "I surmise it will take you at least three hours to reach the village, _if_ you are not eaten by wolves first."

His dark caution brought back the night of the attack and pricked holes in her inflated bravado. She regarded him almost meekly, though the fire to persist never wavered.

"I don't suppose you have a horse you can loan me?"

"I do not."

She frowned. "You own a castle but don't own a horse?"

"My stallion is a wild and temperamental beast. Under your inexpert handling you would again be thrown from the saddle before you could exit the courtyard."

She gave a little wrench of her arm. He tightened his hold to prevent her escape.

"I cannot just stand here and do _nothing_!" she insisted. "There's a poor soul out there – in misery and in need! I promised to help, and I'll not break my word."

"You have yet to tell me the true reason that you are here, Christine Daaé!"

To hear her name again released from his lips, almost a desperate moan, struck her immobile at first, but not long enough to faze her intractability on what _she_ considered a crucial matter.

"I told you. What is crucial is to find that poor man help. How will I live with myself if something happens and I was able to prevent it?"

Her parents had been snatched away from her by a freak accident – taken from her too young. Had there been someone nearby to hear their cries or lend them aid? Surely not, for if there had been, she would have been told and her parents might be alive today. She could not turn her back and ignore the horrid plight of another desperate soul. She _could not_ …

"Let me go," she insisted more forcefully and took a step in retreat, again trying to pull away.

He grated his teeth and dragged her back to the chair, swinging her around and almost throwing her to sit on its thin cushion. She made again as if to rise, but he blocked her. He was lean of form but tall, with a strength she dare not cross. She pressed her shoulder blades to the chair's high back in nervous frustration and glared up at him.

"You will remain seated."

"Am I to be your prisoner then?" she asked half in bitterness, half in earnest. By the look blazing from his golden eyes, he _would_ chain her in his dungeon or lock her away in one of his high towers.

"You might have had the temerity to venture into the void of darkness and then find your way to my castle, but while under my watch, you will not so recklessly make the endeavor to leave its gates."

Under _his watch_?

"After the attack made on you three short nights ago, I am frankly surprised by your rash behavior," he went on. "You may return to Montmarte, when it is again safe to travel."

Montmarte! In the shock of the evening, she'd almost forgotten her true reason to be absent, but had no wish to speak of such things now, and concentrated on the subject at hand. Something niggled at her mind.

"How did you know of the attack on me?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, seeming to take care with choosing his response. "Word spreads quickly in a village of such small stature, and the nights have not been kind to Berwickshire."

She gave a little shiver of what that implied. "Which makes it more imperative that we help him," she insisted. "He was quite frightened and mentioned a dread of more than one coming back. That's what he said – that _they_ might return. Perhaps he was also attacked by wild beasts?"

She studied the Count's formidable stance as he pivoted to stare into the fire. The tautness of his shoulders, and the manner in which he clenched one hand that hung near his thigh showcased his irritation.

"Please, my lord," she said softly, her voice barely heard above the crackle of flames. "Do not refuse my request. Do this…for me."

Christine wasn't sure why she added the last words. She evidently didn't matter to him in the slightest, for him to cease all contact with her, but she had to try to spark at least a glimmer of the compassion of which she knew him capable.

He continued to stare into the fire a short eternity before turning his head to look at her.

"You will remain here while I am absent. Is that understood?

Her heart gave a little lurch of relief that he finally agreed. She didn't even mind his obdurate authority so much, or the dark manner in which he delivered the words.

"Yes," she said without hesitation, having no true desire to slip into the night a second time. Without a horse at her disposal any current escape proved impossible. She certainly was not so foolish as to _walk_ to the village.

The Count left without another word, and Christine turned her attention to the fire, soaking up its warmth. She began to feel drowsy, now that she'd grown still.

His offer to remain had been one step shy of gracious…

But in this castle, with him, despite his confusing distance and unpredictable shifts of mood, she felt a measure of safety that reassured, even as it made no sense.

xXx

The moon lay hidden behind dense clouds, but the darkness of night presented no difficulty, his sharpened senses catching the odor of blood carried on the chill wind. Soon he arrived to the site of the fallen. His keen vision noted the faint glimmer of what the wretch held in his hand and the mode of his clothing.

A _priest_? She had sent him to rescue a bloody priest?

The Count growled his disgust as he dismounted, murmuring a few calming words when Cesar sidestepped and whinnied upon approaching the dead animal in the road. It had taken Erik some time to win the magnificent beast over to accept him as owner; and even still, on occasion the horse shied from the unnatural and the dead, requiring hypnotic persuasion.

He should depart from here with all haste and leave his foe to wallow in the mud and gasp his last fetid breath. He could tell Christine that by the time he reached the priest the fool was gone from this world. She would never know the difference. Yet the image of those haunting eyes, limpid pools of shimmering dark velvet moist with unexplained tears, imploring him to commit an act he once never would have considered, were all that kept him rooted in place.

From her near hysterical behavior, he knew she would take on the full burden of guilt for the loss of this mortal's life, no matter what tale the Count devised. Knew that such unjustified blame could cripple a sensitive soul like hers for a lifetime. Knew this, because he had suffered from his own vile experience of insurmountable guilt.

Why it should matter so strongly how this potential death would affect the woman, Christine, he did not care to speculate deeply. Had no wish to know, fearful he already did...

Erik exhaled another low growl, wishing to bury feeling as much as he wished to bury the wretch at his feet.

The fool lay insensible, and Erik hastened to act while he could still do so unnoticed. Effortlessly he lifted one edge of the dead horse and shifted it off the mortal's legs and to the side, as only a creature with his unholy power could manage.

He then kicked aside the relic that lay loosely within the priest's grasp. It was not the shape of the cross that could cause him injury, unlike those fool mortals thought, but the silver of which it was composed that would singe the thin layer of his sallow skin and burn through tendon and muscle.

With a smirk of disgust, he picked up the limp burden, slight in stature but weighty in complication, and slung him over the saddle. Mounting Cesar, he took the twisting path back.

Those dimwitted men aware of his kind foolishly thought his preternatural breed could alter in shape and fly like lightning across the sky. Would that he could and return to the castle more swiftly than at this unsatisfactory gallop.

He had no wish to leave the curious Miss Daaé alone in his castle any longer than required, nervous of what she might find there if she should decide to wander.

xXx

The fire soothed Christine in a blanket of warmth, to the point that she could barely stay awake, much less remain alert. Not wishing to be found asleep in his parlor when the master returned, she forced herself to stand on legs that still trembled from the challenging night. Stretching her hands high above her head then bringing them behind to clutch her hips and pop the kinks in her back, bending to one side and then the other, a trick she'd learned in ballet, she idly studied the wall across from her.

An arched entryway with no door led out of the room into what she assumed must be another chamber. Tentatively she approached, peeking around the rock.

The area was too dark, but she got the impression of a shape familiar, and curious, she took one of the candelabras from the table across the room, bringing it with her to investigate.

Astonished to see she was right but not overly surprised by the revelation, not after their interlude in the maze and his harsh criticisms of her voice, she looked with interest around the room with its showcase of instruments. Near a small hearth, this one cold and dark, stood the most magnificent grand piano of lacquered black wood upon which stood an unlit multi-branched candlestick.

She approached to plink down a key and then another and another, curling her fingers in a simple chord. Even with her amateur piddling she could hear the deep rich tones produced – an instrument of high quality, surely better than anything the opera house possessed.

She moved further into the room, toward a wall where an enormous golden harp rested and gently brushed her fingers along the strings, producing an angelic waterfall of lilting sound. A violin case sat propped on a low shelf, as did a row of other hard leather cases that she presumed contained diverse stringed instruments by their curved shape and long necks. Still other cases, slim and short, large and thick, and rectangular in shape, perhaps contained woodwinds and brass. Along the walls, equipment she assumed also musical from their stretched strings hung mounted, those seeming older, as if from another era or country or both. The castle room was a veritable storage chamber for all things musical, an expectant quality electrifying the air, as if at any moment a full orchestra would file inside and take their places. Never had she seen so many instruments, with such diversity, contained in one room. Even the opera house could not boast this excess of grandeur. Every instrument her eyes beheld by the light of the three candles was expensively crafted, exquisitely unique, and in all likelihood the top of the line.

Montmarte had no piano, no harp, no instrument for after-dinner entertainment. Save for the night of the ball, when the earl hired musicians, the manor had been bereft of music.

Up until this moment, she had not realized how much she missed it, how her soul craved to hear the sweet melodies, how much she missed the vibrancy and the strains of symphonies that had filled each of her days at the opera house. To her, music was as significant as air to breathe. And though these instruments lay quiet with no skilled hands to urge their song, even standing in their presence helped in some small way to fill the void.

She reluctantly made her way back to the entrance, not wishing for the Count to return and catch her there, while holding the candelabra aloft to light the way.

In the next moment a face appeared in the doorway, pale and drawn, and she gave a little yelp of alarm, almost dropping the candles.

"Why are you here?" the man asked, a ring of disapproval in his tone, his greeting not unlike the Count's.

Nervously she eyed the gaunt figure who stood slightly bent, his thinning hair gray and brushing stooped shoulders. He was taller, but even if he stood erect, she did not think he would attain the height of the Count. By the mode of his dark clothing, simple and formal, she assumed he must be a servant.

"I – the Count told me to remain until he returns," she said quickly. "He- he's out. Running an errand."

The dour servant said nothing, only stared, his dark eyes empty and hard as glass as they took in the candelabrum she held, then moved in narrowed regard back to her face.

It had not been her intent to intrude, but never had she been able to quell her curiosity. As a child, it led her into an abandoned chapel, against the rules, to seek out an angel. As a woman, it compelled her to peek into corners of this empty fortress, without permission, in search of what she could learn of the mysterious Count.

"Pardon," she all but whispered, thankful the entryway was wide enough that she could slip by the man.

She retraced her steps to the table, to replace the candelabrum, hesitating a moment before turning around. The stooped servant continued to stare at her with grave suspicion.

" ** _Gregor_**!"

The Count's voice came in abrupt command from an outer chamber.

"I need you - at once!"

The servant broke his withering stare to hurry as he was able out the door through which the Count first took Christine. She let out a breath but gave no thought to remain, scurrying to follow while keeping a short distance behind.

In the chamber that acted as the foyer, Christine spotted the Count walk past and toward the chamber with the stairs, holding the priest slung over his shoulder.

"Take care of my horse," he told his servant, who, with a slight bow, left for the courtyard.

Christine ducked near the shadowed wall, to avoid the servant's gaze as he passed where she stood, then quickened her steps once she heard the door close. She caught up to the Count as he began to mount a wide staircase. The inert form dangling from his shoulder let out an anguished cry.

"They're coming," he rasped in terror. "God have mercy, they're _here_!"

"Silence," the Count darkly muttered.

Christine stepped forward, making her presence known. "He's alive then?"

He afforded her no more than an impatient glance.

"Return to the parlor. Wait for me there."

"But…" She ignored his directive, taking a step forward. "Should you not fetch a physician?"

"It is highly unlikely that he will live through the night."

"Should you not at least make the attempt?"

"Miss Daaé – the one physician that the village boasts of is old and decrepit and likely would not last the journey here in a fast-moving carriage."

"But -"

He resumed his steady walk up the stairs. "I will tend to him."

"I can help."

"It is not necessary."

"Oh - but really, I insist."

She paused at the foot of the stairs, again looking up at the limp figure of the man that hung over one shoulder of the Count's broad back. "I don't have extensive experience, but I can mop a brow and offer a drink of water."

"Saints preserve us," the priest mumbled. "They will kill us all."

Christine frowned with worry. "In my line of work I've seen bad injuries, even experienced a few of my own," she added when the Count only growled something indistinguishable - to the priest or to her, she wasn't sure. She felt beholden to this poor man of the cloth, even responsible, having sworn to him she would do all she could to help.

"Wait here for Gregor," the Count snapped before she could expound with her negligible abilities. "Tell him to bring hot water, a bottle of whisky, a clean white sheet, and my case of remedies. Have you got that?"

With little choice but to fulfill his wishes, reminding herself this was not her home, but his, Christine nodded and waited while the Count took the injured priest up and to the right where another set of stairs led to a second landing. A third set of stairs paralleled the steps the count took, rising to the left.

The layout was oddly similar to the ballroom stairs at the opera house, replete with golden statuary on each side of the first staircase - these not of bare-breasted women but barely clad all the same and also Greco-Roman in design. She watched his ascent carefully, craning her neck as the staircase made a turn and he disappeared into one of the many chambers.

What seemed an interminable amount of time later, the servant Gregor returned. Christine hastily passed along the Count's orders. The servant neither nodded nor spoke, but gave her another look of grim disapproval before shuffling off to see to his master's wishes.

Christine wasted no time in taking the staircase to the second landing where she had seen the Count go, a silent petition for the poor wounded man whispering through her mind with each hurried step. She didn't know why it should be so important for her to see that he was well cared for, but she felt it her duty. Perhaps because she was the one to find him. She arrived at the chamber and pushed open the door that stood slightly ajar. The Count bent low toward the man lying on his back on the bed. Hearing Christine's step, the Count quickly straightened and looked at her in question.

"Is he alright?" she asked.

The Count regarded her gravely. "His legs are not crushed as I first supposed, but his ankle is broken and he has a bad gash on his side."

"Oh, the poor man." She hurried to the other side of the bed.

At the stir this caused, the priest opened his eyes.

"Hello, do you remember me?" she asked, gently taking his hand.

A glimmer of recognition sparkled in his dark eyes. "You were on the road tonight…an angel sent to help me."

She smiled and her eyes briefly turned up to the Count, who studied them with a frown.

"You are in the castle of the Count cel Tradat. He has graciously lent his aid."

The priest turned his focus to the other side of the bed and the surly man in the mask towering over him. His brow grew slightly troubled but he nodded his thanks. After hearing whispers at the ball of why the Count presumably wore a mask, Christine felt she understood his obsession with it, if the rumors were indeed true that he was badly scarred. Though its presence did prove to be quite formidable.

"Can you tell us how you came to be like this?" Christine asked the priest.

"I …" He squinted as if trying to remember. "I was coming back from visiting a parishioner, delivering last rites, when a heavy fog came upon me unaware…"

Christine frowned at her recent memory of a similar situation, the night of the attack.

"I…" the man shook his head, "must have been riding too fast? The horse slipped, found a sinkhole in the road, I suppose, and fell, poor beast."

Christine shook her head in confusion. "You seemed apprehensive of someone out to do you harm – you said they were after you – that they were coming. Upon arriving to the castle, I heard you say much the same thing. That they would kill us all. Who is it that you were you speaking of? Are we in danger?"

He looked at her with the same amount of puzzlement. "My dear girl, I have no idea what you speak of. The only danger to myself was caused by my own negligence."

Christine blinked in confusion. "But you said - "

"Christine."

The sudden sound of her name coming as soft as velvet stunned her into silence. The edge of warning the voice held had her lift her eyes to its impressive owner.

"In all likelihood he hit his head, and what you heard was only vaporous illusions that stemmed from his mind in its unconscious state."

"But he was aware when I first came upon him - he pleaded for my help."

"Clearly he suffered from delusions brought on by the pain."

The patient abruptly shifted his weight and inhaled a swift hissing cry, jostling his swollen ankle and putting pressure on his wound. Further discussion on the subject was ignored as Christine smoothed her hand over the bony one she held, wishing somehow to make him more comfortable.

The Count watched in silence, not moving a muscle.

At last his servant appeared in the door and the Count approached, whispering further orders that Christine did not hear. Gregor nodded once, as the Count then took the requested items and the servant shuffled away.

The master of the castle immediately set to work, tearing the blood-soaked shirt open enough to get at the wound. He stared at the blood still seeping from the man's ribs with grim fascination; Christine felt queasy and needed to look away. She had seen injuries at the theater of course, even the bone protruding through a worker's leg when he miscalculated distance and fell to the stage, but this was the first she'd seen an injury so deep and so close.

While he never took his eyes off his work, cleaning the wound with the water, Christine could only offer intermittent glances. She pressed her fingertips hard to her lips, hoping to forestall the bile that rose to her throat.

"It will only get worse," the Count said, and she felt her hackles rise at the sardonic amusement in his tone. "Perhaps you should wait in the parlor, as I instructed."

She firmed her shoulders at his inference that she was some weak-kneed little ninny and forced her hand back to her side. "I am fine," she said with quiet confidence and repeated, "I wish to assist, however I can."

He offered no more than a lift of his brow, his mask shifting upward, before returning his attention to the deep, ugly gash.

"Do you know how to thread a needle?"

Christine clenched her fingers into a fist in her skirts, forcing herself to remain calm at the implication such a question presented. She felt a little faint with the knowledge of what would come.

"Yes."

He nodded to the small carved box that lay at the foot of the bed. "You will find the necessary items in the chest Gregor brought. Bring me a threaded needle and the bottle of whisky."

With fingers that trembled, Christine managed to get the thread through the eye after countless failures, knotted one end, then handed both whisky and needle to him. He unscrewed the cap and poured the golden liquid over the gash.

A bloodcurdling howl erupted from the bed. "Saints preserve me!" the preacher gasped, a stream of repetitions imploring the saints and God above to save him.

The Count baptized the needle and thread with a thin stream of whisky then handed her the bottle. "Give him this to drink to shut him up."

Christine frowned at his lack of compassion but did as directed. Thankfully, after another scream, their patient fell into a state of unawareness and the needle made its first prick into skin. At first, Christine thought she might faint at the sight of his long, slender fingers glistening with blood, dipping the needle in and out and sewing together the gash. But after a time, horror led to fascination with his skill as he swiftly accomplished the task, his stitches precise and even, as if he'd done this sort of thing before.

She lifted her eyes to the black mask covering the two-thirds she could not see of his expressionless face. Not for the first time she wondered what kind of man it hid. Had he once held aspirations of becoming a surgeon and studied in the field, his exalted station in life perhaps denying him that dream?

As if aware of her heightened curiosity, he spoke, never taking his eyes from his task.

"I have had the need to educate myself to excel in many accomplishments in my lifetime. Hand me the whisky and move the box closer."

She did so and watched as he made a knot of closure then poured whisky over his stitched work.

The priest let out a subdued moan of anguish. Christine wasn't sure in the shadows cast by the lambent light of the candles, but she thought she saw one side of the Count's lips flicker in a churlish smile.

"My lord?"

He tore a long cloth into strips and wrapped one around the man's exposed middle "It is most fortunate that he is again lost to his surroundings. The next part will be just as unpleasant."

She watched as he removed his muddy shoe. In three quick moves almost unmerciful, he placed his hands low along the limb and set the bone with a crack. Christine grabbed the bedpost, in danger of sinking to the floor as the priest let out another unholy yell.

The Count moved to the cold hearth and selected two sticks that lay near the ashes. Christine watched in amazement as he supported the weak bone, bracing the ankle with the sticks and wrapping the rest of the strips around them. Picking up what was left of the cloth, he wiped the night's gruesome work from his hands.

Christine looked at the priest, who lay with eyes closed, his face pale, but still breathing. They had done all they could; now it was up to the Almighty alone.

As the silence grew heavy, she lifted her gaze to the foot of the bed and those eyes that burned in gold.

"We will resume our discussion downstairs, in the parlor," the Count said, his voice mild but brooking no refusal. He threw down the cloth and swept his hand toward the door. "After you, mademoiselle…"

Her heart suddenly beating like a metronome, Christine meekly nodded and preceded him from the room.

xXx

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 **A/N: Next up, the beginning of disclosures… ;-)**

 **Thank you for the reviews!**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Yes, it's really me - they say trouble comes in 3s - and after being without water for almost three days early last week (a pipe burst causing a geyser by our house) and needing time to deal with that, on top of a cluster headache/ migraine that lasted for days- I then found time to finish my chapter and was thrilled I would be able to post it this past Saturday - but wouldn't you know it? A storm knocked out the Internet as I was polishing the last of it - and I had to wait two MORE days before the repairman could fix it. haha (groan) - Long story short (too late!) - I didn't want to make you guys wait another weekend, when I usually post, so am posting today. :)**

 **As always, thank you for the lovely reviews! They really do make my day (especially when everything is falling apart around here - ha!) A bit of useless trivia found in my research - the Scotch spell it "whisky" on the label, other countries use "whiskey" - I have no idea the reason for such differences, but since this takes place on the border of Scotland, I used the first (it's not a typo). ;-) And now...  
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* * *

 **Chapter XII**

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Once in the parlor, Christine reclaimed her glass and took a reviving sip of the golden libation she now knew must be whisky. She preferred wine, but after the first bitter scourge to her throat, this warmed her well enough and eased the stiffness in her bones from the trying night. The Count motioned to the throne-like chair in the room, and she reclaimed that as well.

He poured himself a drink from the same crystal bottle and returned to the fire. She watched as he stared into the flames, casually tilting the glass back and forth with his fingers and thumb, having yet to take a drink. A long moment passed, and she wondered if he had forgotten they shared the chamber.

She cleared her throat softly. "Will he live? Is he out of danger?"

He snorted what could almost be called a chuckle, if it weren't so derisive, and took a drink from his glass. "You have done all you could. Take comfort in that."

She hardly had done a thing – the Count the true saving grace for the wounded priest, but she held her tongue, sensing he had no desire to hear those words. He was the true hero in this, but seemed to want none of the credit.

As if he discerned her thoughts, he looked her way.

"Let us return to our initial greeting upon your arrival. Why are you here?"

"To seek your aid, of course, and I'm grateful to you for giving it."

He shook his head in impatience. "That is not what I meant and well you know it! Why are you gallivanting about like some damned fool in this perilous countryside in the pitch black of night?"

She scowled. "I was not gallivanting, _my lord_." Harsher words burned, and it was only the knowledge that he was unaware of her situation that kept them from flaming from her tongue. "I have left Montmarte. I shall never return to that awful place."

He narrowed his eyes and took a step toward her. She swallowed hard.

"For what cause did you leave?"

"I had no choice."

"Did the earl harm you?"

His voice came quiet but lethal, and she shook her head.

"No. Unless you count entrapment into unwanted marriage as damaging." Which she did, to _her soul_ , but if he possessed the mindset of most men, he would scorn her idealistic preferences as pure foolish fancy.

He nodded slowly as if at last his question was answered. "So. Your great uncle has found a match for you, and you would rather not have him."

She did not forget that this man had made clear _his_ disinterest to court her, despite his scandalous advances, and she lifted her chin with grim resolve.

"I won't have him. I won't have any man if I don't wish to."

"Your uncle must have taken great delight in hearing that," he said dryly.

She said nothing.

"And so your solution is to flee from his manor in the dead of night, when you _know_ there are wild beasts lurking in the forest?"

Must he keep bringing that up? She stuck her lip out slightly in exasperation at having to constantly explain herself, when her reason should be quite clear.

"I had no choice. I had to wait until the household retired for the evening, didn't I? And ran away before they woke."

He narrowed his eyes at her brusque remark - causing her to feel badly for taking out her frustration on him, when he had been nothing but helpful.

"I'm sorry," she lowered her eyes to her glass and took another small sip.

He studied her a moment before speaking. "Where exactly is your planned destination, Miss Daaé? I assume you have one."

"Paris."

A glimmer of something familiar shone in his eyes but in the next instant his expression was shielded from her curiosity as he turned again to look into the fire, and Christine felt she might have been mistaken.

"Paris," he said softly. "That is where you are from?"

"Yes, I have friends there. And a home, should I wish it." She was certain Madame Giry would give her back her place in the chorus, if it had not already been filled. And if it had, well, she didn't think Madame would send her to live out on the streets as one of the destitute. Surely, there was some task Christine could manage at the theater.

She tried again to appeal to the kindness in his nature, a glimpse of which she'd seen before. "Now that I seem to have lost my horse, I need transportation. If there is any way that you might see clear to, if not loaning me your horse, helping me return to France?"

"It is impossible."

And with those clipped words, he punctured the fragile sheen of her hope.

"Impossible?"

"I have duties to attend that require my presence here."

"Oh, I wouldn't need an escort. I have traveled alone before – it's how I got here…" At his black glower, her words trailed off and she tried again. "Perhaps if you could take me only as far as the village and loan me money to hire a stagecoach -"

"No."

"I will repay you," she said, a bit desperately. "It's just – I don't have any money with me at this time."

Those golden eyes became formidable. "And it was your plan to travel hundreds of miles across this rugged countryside – how?"

She lifted her chin. "I would have found a way."

He expelled a disgusted breath and shook his head.

"I can give you shelter, this one night, until it is again safe to return to Montmarte. I have instructed Gregor to prepare a room. You will find it two doors down from where the priest resides. But that is all I can do for you Miss Daaé."

She frowned at his implication that she would return to the manor that had brought her nothing but woe, but felt a little thrill of shock at his grudging invitation, though she should not be surprised at his gallantry, reluctant as it came. He had made it patently clear that he would not let her go until the dawn, and nighttime in Berwickshire was anything but tranquil. Regardless, she felt a bit apprehensive to realize he meant for her to stay the entire night at his castle.

The connotations of the gesture were given as a courtesy, but should anyone discover that she slept the night there, what little reputation she was considered to have in this shire as a thespian would be entirely ruined…but surely, no more appalling than striking out in the night, an unmarried woman alone, to flee across foreign lands so as to return to familiar turf.

What did she care what these people thought of her, since she would soon never again see any of them? Never again see _him_ …

A strange sadness prickled inside her heart as she regarded the golden eyes that so steadily regarded her and realized he awaited a response.

"Thank you, my lord. I find myself at a dead end, and must accept. If it's alright with you, I would prefer to sit here awhile, by the fire. I still feel a bit of a chill."

He nodded slowly. "As you wish."

A congenial if uncertain silence stretched between them. Christine's attention wandered to the entrance of the adjacent chamber she discovered hours ago.

She realized she risked his anger by her next words, but curiosity wouldn't let them rest.

"Earlier, while you were gone, I, um…" She hesitated when he turned the full power of those eyes of fire and gold her way. "In order to remain awake, I wandered the room and found the chamber with the instruments inside."

He narrowed his gaze until his irises were flickering points of light. She nervously cleared her throat of her lame confession solely fashioned to learn more.

"I, um – do you play any of them?" When seconds whispered past without an answer, she added, "Or do you only collect them? I remember in the maze you told me that you have studied music and its composers, which is why I ask."

"You have a remarkable memory … when it suits you to remember."

The glow of his unexpected compliment faded with his last sardonic words.

"Meaning?"

"How often have I warned you not to wander about the countryside at night?"

She sighed in wearied exasperation of his tiring mantra. "I told you, I had no choice. What is confusing to me is why you pretend to care. You made it explicitly clear that you wanted nothing more to do with me, ordering me away -"

"And yet, here you are, in my home."

Unwelcome tears pricked the back of her eyes at his detached, cold words and his clear displeasure with her presence. A mistake she would not make again.

She rose from the chair and held out her glass for him to take.

"Thank you for your kind invitation, my lord Count, but I will have to decline. I have no desire to stay where I am unwanted."

"Sit down, Christine."

Again, with his soft use of her familiar name, she felt unarmed. Wounded offense had spurred her into action without thought – truthfully, where the devil could she go in this wild stretch of forest without a horse to carry her far and fast? She was trapped here, without either of them wishing it, and could do nothing but wait for the morning to crawl in.

She felt frustrated and angry and hurt and sank back to the chair, gathering the tatters of her battered pride around her like a flimsy shield. Pressing her lips together, she stared hard into the fire.

"I have found that music is the catharsis for a weary soul," he said quietly, shocking her as she acknowledged his response to her earlier question. "I both collect the instruments and play them."

"I wish I could have learned," she said wistfully after a moment, a trifle more at ease now that her accidental host had initiated easy conversation. "Meg and I would sometimes sneak backstage when it was empty and play the upright piano there, or try – as well as two little girls with no training could manage." She shrugged with a despondent little laugh. "Actually we were rather awful."

He studied her intently, as if confronted with a puzzle. She wished to know what he was thinking but didn't ask.

"What music do you like best?" she inquired, wishing to fill the new silence.

"Opera."

"Oh," she breathed softly. Another thing they had in common, though she shouldn't be surprised. He had uncovered her scheme of Gounad's fictional characters for her ghostly dance partners.

"Have you been to many of them?"

"I have attended operas all over the world."

She was quite surprised to hear that – the reclusive Count traveled? And yet, had she not been told that he only arrived at this castle two years ago?

"Is there one opera you prefer over others? Perhaps a composer you favor? "

Beneath the full mask, his lips flickered into a half grin. "You ask many questions."

"I love music. It's nice to share that love with someone. The earl nor Lucy had any real fondness for it, and Raoul regarded music only as an occasional entertainment. "

The Count considered a moment, as if deciding whether or not to continue their conversation. Christine had the oddest feeling that he both wanted to stay and wished to go. Another thing they shared.

"I would assume Faust is your preference?" he asked at last.

She smiled, perhaps her first genuine smile of the evening, of the entire week. She could discuss music for hours.

"I do like it, the Jewel Song especially. But I think my favorite to sing would be _La Traviata_."

His brow lifted, his mask shifting upward. "Yet another story of a woman fallen from grace?"

She fidgeted slightly, resolving not to take his words as an insult.

"Those operas suit my voice. I also like _Mireille_. I like that it incorporates folk songs, similar to the songs of my youth, when my parents were both alive." She gave another wistful sigh. "I also enjoy the comedic operettas, though they can be quite bawdy. And you?"

"I tend to prefer the darker nature of a story along with the dramatic."

His admission fit the manner of man he was, and she was pleased he had unbent enough to satisfy her curiosity. Again he seemed to hesitate an extensive time, as if unsure he should speak or act.

"If you are not yet ready to retire for the evening, perhaps you would not mind if I played?"

His words were low and tentative, entirely unexpected, tasty morsels uneasily offered – and Christine grasped them to her with greedy delight. "Oh, yes, please. At Montmarte there was no music and I have missed it so."

"That comes as little surprise. The earl is tone deaf."

"Is he?"

She had lived there nearly a month and had no clue; the Count had visited briefly with the earl one afternoon, and judging from what her uncle told her, their conversation had nothing to do with music.

He noticed her expression of curious astonishment.

"I overheard others speak of it at the ball." He took a sip of his drink. "Any preference?"

For whatever reason, what came to mind was the first opera her Angel taught her, _Médée,_ though surely the Count wouldn't know it. An opera from almost a century past, the Angel told her it was never again played after its lukewarm reception in Paris, and that he'd only chosen it for her lessons, to help enrich her sopranic voice.

She shook off the melancholy that always invaded her heart when she thought of him, and chose instead something the Count was sure to know.

"Something from Faust perhaps?"

She wondered if he could also sing, but decided not to abuse his generosity and ask. He inclined his head in an amused little nod, his eyes glowing devilishly with an eagerness to share his craft that, to her knowledge, all artisans possessed.

He turned into the music room and vanished from her sight. With no door to block sound, she would hear him well and remained seated on his throne-like chair. The first silken notes flowed from the chamber and wrapped around her soul. She inhaled deeply of its essence, feeling the melody soothe away the cares of life and bring her a much coveted serenity. He played with expert grace, but it was not his skill that impressed her so much as his art – as if his soul reached out to her, beckoning her to enter his world…

Helpless to remain seated after several stanzas, she rose and moved slowly toward the chamber, wishing to see him caress the chords so tenderly with his fingers as sound implied.

And then he began to sing the first lines of Faust's cavatina: _Salut, demeure chaste et pure_ , an ode to Marguerite as a pure child of nature.

Christine went entirely still, suddenly forgetting how to breathe.

When he had first spoken to her, at the festival, and each time after that, she had a strange sense of awareness, thinking it only the beauty of his deep tenor reaching through to her soul. Rich and full-bodied, like a most excellent wine, his speaking voice was strong, fluid _…present._ The voice of her past had been vacuous in whispers. Even when raised in anger, it had remained distant…ghostly…often bouncing in waves all around the walls, coming from objects impossible to comprehend.

But that voice…that voice…

Haunting her from her dreams in song…

Whispering to her in memories never forgotten.

She shook away the impossibility and drew closer still until she stood just inside the chamber. Her back to the lintel, she stared hard at his broad shoulders and dark hair that barely touched their tops, the strands not pulled back in their usual ebony silk ribbon. His long, slender fingers picked out the melody as his beautiful voice quietly continued to extol the virtues of the young Marguerite.

"Angel...?"

xXx

Her query came on a pause, causing Erik to go utterly still. After a long moment, he shook off the tremor of shock her innocently-aired word had given, and turned on the bench to regard her.

Her dark eyes were wide and bright and full of incredulity. She stood transfixed.

"Why would you call me by such a name?"

After the harshness he'd shown her, the "monster" and "beast" she had justifiably called him, "Angel" hardly made sense.

She shook her head and blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and appeared quite flustered by his words.

"I'm sorry if I offended you." She gave an embarrassed little shrug of her shoulders and looked down at the glass still in her hand, taking a small sip. "It must be the hour and the whisky and your transcendent music. I wasn't myself for a moment, or rather I was - transported back through time."

Her words made even scanter sense. He motioned to a chair that stood near the cold hearth.

"Perhaps you should take a seat before you fall."

She walked unsteadily closer and sank to the chair, looking down at her glass she cupped with both hands. He did not persist, sensing she would soon continue. He was not disappointed.

"I suppose an explanation is in order. You see, as a child, I believed rather foolishly in fables, that they were genuine. My Papa was a master at crafting them, and your music – your voice – brought those memories back. Of a time when I was newly orphaned, lost and lonesome, in my new home at the opera house."

Thunderstruck, he listened to her quiet words that tendered sparks of revelation inside his withered soul. He could barely inhale to breathe.

It could not be…

"I prayed for an Angel of Music to appear, to teach me. The Angel from Papa's stories…"

His eyes widened as he took in, as if for the first time, her long, dark curls; her glistening dark eyes and creamy, delicate features – that face once pinched and pale, the hair lackluster and much shorter, those eyes having been a lighter shade of brown, but then, as now, so haunted.

"Lotte," he barely uttered the ghost of the name beneath his breath.

"Did you say something?" she asked. When he didn't respond, she went on, "For a time, I did have someone special teach me to sing. I called him my Angel, though I now know he was but a man. I never saw him – he taught me from beyond the chapel wall. At least, I think that's where he must have hidden." She gave a little embarrassed laugh. "There were corridors behind the walls, you see, found years later by some stagehands. But my Angel went away; I think I must have displeased him. And well, there was never anyone after that willing to take the extensive amount of time with me that he did, in teaching me to sing." She frowned and looked back into her glass. "I have tried to recall all of his instructions, but it was such a long time ago. And I haven't always been successful, as you heard the night of the ball. Your voice reminded me of his. He sang with the voice of an angel…as do you."

He should have guessed earlier, when she first mentioned Paris as home and Meg as a friend - indeed, had felt a glimmer of recognition he just as swiftly brushed aside. The same glimmer he'd experienced weeks ago, when he first heard her sing at the ball - how did he _not realize_? Admittedly, he'd stood outside, hidden away, her voice distant and matured from the sweet child's voice he'd known. Still retaining its crystalline beauty, but not yet trained to its full potential…

By the blood of his ancestors – _how could he have not known_!

She thought him displeased.

She could not have been further from the truth.

"My lord Count…?" Concern laced her voice. "Are you not feeling well?"

"Never call me by that name that again."

His words came sharp, the timbre of them soft.

She winced as if slapped. "I did apologize. I never meant to call you Angel. It's simply where my mind was at the time -"

"I told you once, for you, my name is Erik."

Her surprise was evident by the manner in which her lips softly parted. Small wonder after his chill aloofness toward her these weeks. If anything, he should continue to create distance between them, not invite familiarity. But no longer could he bear the meek way she said his title – as if he was exalted above her, when in truth, he was unworthy to kiss the hem of her garment.

She was pure of heart, like Marguerite…and he was Faust and Mephistopheles combined, the condemned and the wicked – though he would never wish to stain her innocent soul with his darkness, or wound her trusting nature.

Lotte…

 _Christine._

He shook his head, still struggling with the shock and the disbelief, that after all these years, of all those to come to Berwickshire and to his castle, where none ever visited, _she_ should be here now.

What wretched game did the Fates now play with his life?

"My lord?" she inquired in a gentle voice the moment before he felt her fingertips faintly touch his shoulder. He snapped his head up and sideways to look at her. She inhaled swiftly and snatched her hand back, the uncertain look in her dark eyes now familiar…

"I think it wise if you leave me now and retire to bed." His voice came low but fierce with the determination to be obeyed as he turned back to stare, unseeing, at the ivory keys.

"Yes, alright."

She retreated two swift steps and stopped as if she would say more, but after this discovery, he needed time to think in the dark comfort of his solitude.

"If you do not remember the way, Gregor will show you."

"N-no. It's not difficult to find." Her footsteps hastened to the door. "Goodnight then."

He listened to her hurry out of the main parlor and to the staircase, his keen hearing able to discern the staccato of her footsteps as she ran up to the second landing as if fleeing for her life.

He closed his eyes and hoped it would never come to that.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you guys liked the first of disclosures (and the rest of the chapter too - haha). :) Thanks again for the reviews!**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Thank you for all the reviews and the interest! :) I'm sorta in foreign water here, so I'm glad you guys are enjoying my weak attempts at a paranormal PotO romance...**

* * *

 **XIII**

She did not fear him. She did not. Indeed, the emotions that had flowed through her veins felt far absent from fear, her desire to draw closer to him compelling her actions. The wild look in his eyes when he had turned to her confused her thoughts and made her suddenly uncertain…but she did not fear him.

Though fear had been part of what she read in his eyes. Fear and shock. Disbelief and – _anger?_

Had her words about the erstwhile Angel upset him, perhaps to be so foolishly mistaken for such a frightening and glorious creature? Frightening to a child of seven, indeed, but now that she was a woman, she knew no angel's voice could have addressed her in the chapel…only a man, and by Meg's words, a disturbed individual.

Despite that knowledge, despite that over a decade had passed, she'd never forgotten him. He had made too great an impact on her young life, giving her all she wanted and needed at the most troubling time of her childhood.

Christine quickly made her way to the room appointed her for the night. Before entering the chamber, she peeked around the door of the room in which the priest rested to see how he fared.

By the swift rise and fall of his chest that the woolen blanket covered, she could see he yet lived and breathed and silently said a prayer of thanks. Noting his slumber was deep, she had no wish to disturb him and left the door ajar, as before. She then went to the chamber two doors down, the only chamber with the door standing wide. All others in this corridor were closed to her.

A four-poster bed, a wardrobe, and a vanity dresser of dark wood composed the room. Soft buttery yellows, pine green, bronze, and gold gave a bit of cheerful relief to the otherwise austere chamber. No paintings graced the walls, no knickknacks sat atop the dresser. One recessed window stood absent of all adornment of drapery. She moved to its ledge, wide enough for her to sit, and stared out the panes of glass into the courtyard below. Above its curtain of enclosed walls, she could dimly see the dark forest that enclosed the castle. It was likely only her present mood that had her imagine she saw yellow eyes peer from the trees toward the fortress, seeming to stare directly at her.

With a little shiver, Christine moved away. She glanced at the door, noting there was no lock and nervously removed her slippers and dress. Quickly she untied the pouch of her personal things from around her waist and set it on the dresser. A second time, she looked with wary regard toward the closed door before removing her petticoats.

She had no choice but to trust that the Count wouldn't enter her bedchamber, uninvited. He certainly behaved as though he had no wish to ravish her again, almost jumping out of his skin and pulling away when she barely touched him, and certainly he no longer wanted her near, almost barking at her to go.

He ran hot as flame then cold as ice, for no apparent reason that she could discern.

The Count cel Tradat was a man cloaked in layers of mystery Christine would never unravel. Soon she would leave this dismal region, somehow, and he would remain only a bittersweet recollection of her distressing sojourn in Berwickshire.

She removed her corset and practically dove beneath the covers, shivering in her chemise and drawers and grateful for the thick plush warmth of the gold comforter.

x

Though she assumed she would not sleep, Christine found herself awakening, with the dawn streaming through the uncovered window and washing the foot of her bed in pale white light.

Recalling that she sojourned at Castle Dragan and her reason for being there, Christine quickly dressed, tying her pouch over her petticoats before again donning her black day gown with the embroidered red and gold flowers. It was the loveliest dress she owned; the two others she had left behind at Montmarte, along with her carpetbag. Perhaps it had been foolish to leave her things, but at the time all she could think about was to escape quickly on horseback without being burdened down.

Before heading downstairs, she poked her head into the priest's room, surprised to see him awake.

"Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you," she amended, ready to dart away.

"Please, don't go." His words came weary, but legible.

Christine stepped softly to his bedside. "Good morning, pere, er, um…Father. Are you feeling any better?"

"I am, in great part thanks to you. And you may call me Father Kiley. It was a brave thing you did, my dear, in these dangerous times. It isn't safe to leave one's doorstep, especially at night. Had not old man MacClodden required my services, I would never have attempted to ride, though my poor horse bore the brunt of my misfortune."

She was alerted to his words. "You remember what happened then?"

He looked puzzled. "Happened? I only meant that the shire has fallen on perilous times these last months."

"Of course." Christine managed a faint smile. For whatever reason he had forgotten the details of his own encounter near death, and perhaps that was for the best. He was no longer hysterical with panic, but with the dawn had become calm and lucid. She had half expected to enter his room and find him feverish from his wounds, as had happened to the stagehand with the shattered bone. But instead, though weak and in pain, after a few minutes more of talking with Father Kiley, she was relieved to note the priest was improved. Greatly so…more than she would have imagined possible.

Promising she would find a servant and pass along the message that Father Kiley would like breakfast, Christine descended the stairs to the main floor.

A stir at the entryway leading to the courtyard caught her attention. Her heart wrenched from her body and plummeted to the ground seeking a crack to fall through at the sound of a familiar raised voice.

"Where is she – where's my grandniece? _Get out of my way, damn it_ – I know she's here!"

Christine's first impulse was to fly back up the stairs and hide herself in the bedchamber she'd been given. Before she could undertake such a desperate attempt, she felt a familiar presence come up behind from a chamber beyond the stairs.

"I will deal with this," the Count said quietly near her ear as he walked past and in front of her to confront the unwelcome guest.

Christine felt paralyzed, yet felt she had no choice but to follow. It seemed cowardly to secret herself away and allow the Count to fight her battles for her, if indeed that was his intent. She truly did not know how he felt toward her, not after last night's bizarre encounter, but this morning he no longer seemed upset with her. Instead, his antagonism was directed elsewhere…

Once she came within the earl's view and two of his men who'd accompanied him – brutish servants who had never acknowledged her in any way, except to leer – the earl narrowed his eyes at her in angry disgust. He glared at the formidable man near her side but did not lash out at Christine as she expected.

"So – I was right! What you have done is unconscionable, sir, and I demand satisfaction!"

Beneath the mask, the Count's lips twisted into a half smile of scorn. "A duel then. Name the time and place."

The pudgy earl looked suddenly ill at ease as he took in the trim and towering figure before him, who even to the untrained eye suggested that he would excel in skills with weaponry. Assured and confident.

"No-no that's not what I meant," the earl swiftly backtracked. "I speak about the fate of my ward."

"I refuse to hold a discussion in the foyer," Erik said darkly. "If you will follow me into the parlor."

His was not a request but a command. He looked at Christine, the fire in his eyes softening to a warm glow.

"Mademoiselle, if you would join us?"

A bit flummoxed by his genial manner toward her, almost _tender,_ she walked with the men to what she now thought of as the throne room. Indeed, the Count acted like a king to his peons. He looked toward her in silent question if she wanted to be seated. When she shook her head no, he regally took the throne and regarded her uncle, while she drifted a short distance away, wishing she could separate herself from the entire proceedings.

"You have ruined the girl's reputation by keeping her here with no chaperone. If Lord Lomax hears of this, and in this small district it is likely the scuttlebutt has already begun, he will break our contract. Your transgression must be rectified. I demand that you marry my niece and fulfill Lord Lomax's promises, including the sum of fifty thousand pounds agreed upon."

Christine could not believe what she was hearing – _a bride price_? Was that archaic principle even continued in this century – in this remote corner of the world? Or was it solely her avaricious uncle's idea?

"I will not marry Christine by your order or any other," the Count replied, his voice quiet but lethal. "No man tells me what to do, and if you are quite finished, it is time for you to go."

His first words caused the oddest dull twinge in her heart though she detected a thread of sadness in his tone and glanced at him curiously. Something her uncle said came to mind and caused her to speak.

"But there _was_ a chaperone upstairs. A priest."

"A priest?" The earl parroted in confusion, swinging his irate gaze her way.

"Yes – Father Kiley. He was injured last night on his journey to the village and stayed in a room upstairs."

A stir to her right had her look toward the entrance. Gregor stood in the doorway and nodded to the Count. The master of the castle rose from his throne.

"If you will excuse me." He walked across the room to join his servant and the two men left the room.

Christine stared where the Count had last been in nervous curiosity. Suddenly her arm was grabbed in a bruising grip, and the earl whirled her around to face him. He shook his finger under her nose, his face beet red.

"You little trollop – how dare you disrupt my plans!"

Before she could respond, the sting of his hand sent fire racing up her cheek and she flinched, tears glossing her eyes. She pressed a hand to her wounded face.

"I have no wish to marry Lord Lomax – he's a disgusting, old, perverse man. Please, only let me return to Paris. I vow that you'll never see me again."

He sneered at her plea. "And why would I do that when Lord Lomax's desperation for a beautiful young bride to give him an heir has led him to agree to my terms. Your rake of a Count has refused your hand. And so you _will_ marry Lord Lomax, and I will deliver you to him with all haste - _today_!"

"I won't!" Bitter desperation forced her words. "I won't go with you! I'd rather die first!"

"You will do as I say and leave with me now, even if I have to beat you into submission – do not think I won't refrain from teaching you your place."

As he spoke he swiftly raised his open hand, ready to strike a second time. Christine squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the impact. When nothing happened, she opened them slightly.

A large hand was clamped around the earl's wrist, the tall bearer of that hand glaring down at the shorter man with eyes that blazed a message written in fire.

"If you ever raise a hand to her again, you will most decidedly regret it."

How he had moved so silently and swiftly, Christine had no clue, but she was extremely grateful for his intervention.

"She is _my_ ward and under _my_ authority!"

"And you are in **_my_** home, where **_my_** word is law. _Let her go_ …"

The Count's voice came low but reverberated more deadly than the earl's shouted claim.

With a grimace of disgust, the earl released Christine's arm. The Count then did the same with the earl's wrist, holding it a few short seconds in warning before pausing to shake it from him as though it were rubbish. The earl rubbed his wrist vigorously, as if it greatly pained him.

"I will speak with Christine alone," the Count announced then looked at her. "If you will accompany me, mademoiselle."

The rage in his eyes had mellowed as he turned to her, and she nodded, though again, his was not a question but a command.

"She is still my ward. If you think to help her escape me, I will have the magistrate on you for abducting my grandniece."

The Count's jaw hardened to stone. He looked across the room toward his servant who had also returned to the parlor chamber. "Watch them."

"Yes, my lord."

The earl and his men studied the old, stooped butler with arrogant scorn. The earl nodded once to his men to grab Christine as she walked beside the Count. The moment they began to advance, Gregor lifted a long-barreled pistol from where he had concealed it behind him, aiming the weapon their way.

The earl's men stopped in their tracks and slowly retreated, putting their hands in the air.

"You will pay for this," the earl growled. "The law is on **_my_** side – you will see!"

Christine looked back over her shoulder at him, her brow furrowed in concern. She felt long fingers clasp her elbow, gently prodding her forward, and directed her attention toward the Count. He did not seem the least bit apprehensive of his potential arrest, ignoring the earl all the while the disagreeable man continued to hurl threats his way.

x

The two entered the music room, and the Count motioned Christine past the grand piano and the chair by the hearth, to the opposite side of the room, further out of hearing of those in the adjacent chamber. An upholstered bench in rose satin with curved legs of scrolled dark wood, looking like something from a former century, stood just out of sight where the walls made a shallow dip that formed an alcove. She sank to the firm cushion at the sweep of his hand toward it and watched as he lit the candle in a sconce on the wall, giving them a small radiance of light.

He did not speak, instead seeming to glare at a painting near her, though she doubted he truly saw the vision in oils of what appeared to be sprites dancing and playing instruments on a grassy knoll of a forest clearing. He appeared solidly immersed in thought, barely glancing at her, where she clutched her hands together in her skirts between her knees. He seemed to be having a confrontation within his mind, and by his expression, it wasn't pleasant.

All of this was her fault. He did not want her here, and now because of his chivalrous act to ensure her well-being, he'd found trouble. Perhaps even with the law, as the earl had threatened more than once.

"I'm sorry –" She went on to apologize, when suddenly he turned from the painting and spoke.

"I offer you marriage, but not in the customary fashion."

She stared up at him, uncertain she'd heard correctly. His golden eyes were grave but in earnest. Once the shock of his words at last registered, she shook her head in confusion and managed to utter a strained reply.

"What exactly does that mean?"

"I will take you as my wife and give you my name, my home, and my protection. However, I do not expect you to fulfill the duties of a wife, chiefly those that involve the marriage bed. This arrangement will be in name only, giving us both something we want."

Her face heated with rosy color at the candor of his words. "And what is it that _you_ want?"

"Three things I will give; three things I will ask."

She nodded faintly. "Go on."

"I demand your absolute loyalty."

Reasonable enough, regardless that this bizarre proposal of marriage made no sense.

"I demand your respect – to obey my word as final."

She looked at him with doubt laced in suspicion. "Obey you in what?"

"To begin with, to allow me to keep my secrets and not intrude into areas I would prefer you did not enter. Certain rooms of the castle for instance."

He noticed the apprehension cloud her eyes at his mention of secrets kept and thinned his lips.

"You need not fear me, Christine. When I found you in the fog on our second meeting, you told me then that I would not harm you. You spoke in truth. I would never ask anything of you that could wound or that would give you a moment's regret. On this you have my word. I seek only to offer protection, but I _will_ be obeyed in this."

She considered his conditions. "What is the third thing you would want from me?"

He took a deep breath, as if this was the most monumental of all he asked.

"I wish to become your instructor in voice and teach you to sing."

She blinked in shock, never having expected that.

"You- you want to _teach_ me?" she breathed in amazement.

The offer was as startling as the proposal. She did not doubt that he could instruct her, only that he would wish to.

"Your voice, while requiring hard work to reach its peak of magnificence, is one of the most lovely I've heard, and I have observed many singers perform during my time on this earth. Long have I desired to train and mold a voice such as yours, to take pleasure in the triumph such an accomplishment would produce – so that you may one day star in the opera I have created."

She gasped, though it hardly surprised her that a man with his musical prowess would compose his own opera – only that he would wish her to play the lead.

Was she dreaming?

His steady eyes shimmering in gold assured her that she was not.

"Until that time, I wish for us to remain here, at my castle. Upon our arrival to Paris a year from now, I will grant your freedom if you wish it."

"Freedom?" Was that squeak of a voice hers? Softly she cleared her throat.

"To dissolve the marriage with an annulment."

"Oh."

When she said nothing more, he continued. "To a degree, you will have the freedom to do as you please. I am away on business most days, but you may roam freely throughout the castle and enter any rooms that are not locked. You will, of course, have your own private bedchamber. Should you wish a change of rooms, you may have any of the guest rooms you desire to make your own."

"What if I wish to leave the castle? To go to the village, for instance?"

"Gregor will take you wherever you want to go."

"So you _do_ have a wagon and could have taken me last night, as I asked!" she said in disgruntled triumph, half exasperated with his implication that he owned only a wild stallion.

He clucked his tongue in irritation. "Gregor was busy with important errands and absent from the castle when you first arrived. Should you wish him to drive you to the village, so that you may seek travel to Paris, I'll not stop you." His grim words surprised her, his eyes just as grave. "Keep in mind, however, that your uncle is not a man to surrender easily. He will likely follow you to France and force his hand. As you are his ward, the authorities will side with him, and you might again find yourself the victim of his plan."

He was right, she knew he was right, but it was so wretchedly frustrating – that the society in which she lived saw a woman as property, even chattel, always needing to be dependent on a man. Father, guardian, husband – it failed to matter. At least what the Count offered was the most preferable of the two choices – to flee to Paris, to stay at the castle, and he _wanted_ to teach her to sing! She would be surrounded with his beautiful music…

Still she hesitated, a matter that puzzled needing clarification.

"My uncle told me you wanted nothing to do with me. _You_ told me, to my face, that you never wished to see me again. What has changed? Why would you make such an offer that will tie us together for such a prolonged time?"

"I cannot stand to see you under your uncle's tyrannical thumb one moment longer. Nor do I wish for you the damnable fate he has planned."

She shook her head. "But that's nothing new. He has never made a mystery of his plans for me. Plans I told you. Yet when last we spoke you made it crystal clear that you didn't ever again want to speak with me – didn't even want me to _approach_ you."

"I have reconsidered my directive. Is that not enough?"

She supposed it must be, but with his mercurial shifts of mood, it wasn't.

"And when you tire of my presence or grow angry with something I've done, how do I know you won't boot me out of the castle and insist to have nothing more to do with me?"

"A vow is sacred," he said with weary emphasis. "Once I make you my wife, you will be mine, in name - The Countess cel Tradat. That name holds power, Christine. You need never again fear what others may do to you here in Berwickshire, indeed, anywhere you travel in the world. I vow that I'll never leave you or order you away again. I'll not betray you in that manner. Castle Dragan will be your home for as long as you wish it."

It all sounded too perfect. Too frightening. Too unbelievable.

He kept his distance from her for weeks, and up until they entered this room a short few minutes ago, he had shown no change of heart, initially telling her uncle he wouldn't marry her.

"I would like a few minutes to think about this." She would prefer a week, a month, a year, but doubted her uncle would be so considerate of her feelings to allow even one hour.

"As you like."

Christine watched the Count stride through the doorway, wishing there was a door there to allow more privacy. She heard the murmur of voices, her uncle's harsh in demand, followed by the Master's clipped order for silence.

She desperately yearned for a safe haven away from her uncle and that she need never deal with his interference in her life again. The Count offered that and more, asking in return only to teach her to sing, which though he may not know it, had long been a desire – for someone of musical excellence to instruct her. He required her loyalty and respect, both of which she felt able to give. He had saved her a handful of times, saving her from herself, saving her from danger. She could trust him.

What niggled at her mind was his unsolicited presence in her bedchamber on the night of the ball. Passion had spiraled between them, heavy and sweet, but he offered her a passionless, dry marriage. The last time they met near the forest, he kissed her with the thirst of a man who'd found an oasis in her embrace. So he was not unaffected by her presence…

And yet, he offered her a clinical marriage, in name only.

Could she trust him to honor his word? Could she marry absent of love, which went against every grain of what she'd always wanted, even if it was only to be for a year? Could she truly enter into such a cold, methodical arrangement?

And once the year was complete, could she actually seek annulment when Mama Valerius had so often told her that marriage was sacred?

Christine sank with a sense of desperation and despair to the piano bench, nowhere nearer to arriving at a decision than when the Count had left the room minutes ago.

xXx


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews and interest! :) And now...**

* * *

 **XIV**

Once Erik left Christine's side, he silently approached the earl, who paced before the blazing hearth. Catching sight of him, the earl opened his mouth to speak, but Erik raised a hand to stop him before the despicable man could utter one derogatory word.

"You will listen to what I have to say."

"Where is she?" The earl insisted. "Did you let her escape?"

"You will _listen._ To what I have. To say."

He drew menacingly close as he spoke, the earl retreating for each commanding step Erik took toward him, until the pompous buffoon fell back onto the chair, sprawled against it like a discarded puppet. Mouth agape, he blinked nervously up at Erik.

"At present, Christine is considering my offer of marriage."

The light of surprise in the earl's eyes shifted to greed, which Erik quickly banished to the outer reaches of Elysium with his next calm words.

"If she should agree, this union will commence solely on my terms. The first of which is this: you will not receive one farthing as a 'bride price'."

"Now see here –" the earl blubbered, his face going florid as his temper began to rise.

"NOT. ONE." The Count raised his voice, putting a swift end to the earl's protestations. "However, I will agree to extend the amount needed to acquire a worthy physician for your daughter. There is a specialist in London with experience in such cases. In addition, I will agree to a reasonable sum to aid in renovations for Montmarte, nothing excessive or unnecessary." He pulled his lips back over his teeth in a grimace. "Be warned, if even a shilling of that money should find its way into your purse for personal gain, I will know it, and you will rue the betrayal."

The earl grunted in reluctant agreement, somewhat subdued at the mention of Lucy. For all his failings, he did appear to have a paternal fondness for his daughter. Christine cared for Lucy, that much was clear, and Erik owed it to the young, addled girl to do what he could to protect her, fearing she, too, had been targeted for destruction because of him.

Once, he would not have cared about the fate of any mortal. To an extent, he still remained apathetic, but Lucy was different, naïve and unassuming. She did not deserve the fate that had been allotted to her, a fate that had caused her to hide herself away in a childlike mentality after having witnessed what she should never have seen. And Christine…well, she was Christine. His Lotte, as she had then introduced herself and he had come to think of her in their chapel meetings, concealed beyond a wall of painted stone. Even then he had sworn a self-made vow to protect her from danger.

"The marriage, should it take place, will commence here, in my home. Moreover, you will agree never again to seek out Miss Daaé, and henceforth will remain distant from Castle Dragan."

"Why should I accept your grossly deficient offer when Lord Lomax has agreed to the sum of twenty-thousand guineas!"

The number of irony did not escape him.

"Lord Lomax will not touch one curl of her head, whether she accepts my offer or not," he announced darkly.

"And what is preventing me from taking my grandniece from your infernal castle at this very moment?" The earl stood to his feet, his mercenary appetite a reckless prompt to his bluster and bravado.

"I should think that would be obvious." Erik curled his fingers into tight fists at his side, barely restraining a demonstration of his fury, one that would so woefully end in this mortal's demise. He could still see the stinging red imprint of the vengeful slap on Christine's cheek –

If only he could end this fool without reprisal!

In those few minutes he had taken, while Christine waited near the staircase to deliver his message to Gregor, mesmerizing the holy man's mind into forgetfulness had been quite simple. With the earl, any dramatic change in behavior after having visited the castle was sure to cast suspicion. Such as Erik compelling the fool to lose all interest in Christine. His busybody of a grandnephew would certainly wonder at the abrupt turnabout, and ignoramus though the young upstart could be, the Vicomte was still Erik's lifelong foe. New in the role and wet around the ears, but a slayer nonetheless. Yet a modest command was in order; nothing that would raise too many wary heads but enough to warrant diminished interest. He had no desire to be on constant guard from the earl's pathetic attempts to regain Christine.

Slow and steady, the manipulation slipped from Erik's lips, his hypnotic gaze ensnaring his unwary victim's, "Christine is under my protection. After the attack she suffered while under your care, my castle is the safest place for her. You have proven that you are not _able_ to provide for her well-being. She will not leave with you, today or any other day. Nor will you demand it."

"I'll not demand it…" the earl parroted in a lifeless voice.

"Should she wish to accept my offer of marriage, you will do nothing to hinder it."

"I'll not hinder."

Erik supposed he could also compel the earl to forget the price agreed upon. But that surely would be considered suspect – for his avarice to disappear so completely that he readily agreed to receive no recompense from the arrangement, when he had been so adamant before. After his brief acquaintance with Lucy, the Count felt no regret to provide monetary help for the child or extend reasonable aid in the upkeep of the only shelter she would likely ever know, sensing Christine would wish it. He certainly could afford the cost; indeed, had more affluence than anyone in the shire knew about, tucked away here, in Paris, and in his homeland of Romania. He could also compel the earl to forget any notion of tracking her to France, and in so doing, warrant this marriage unnecessary - but if his kind discovered that she was bred from the Van Helsings, herself, a slayer - a more brutal peril would surely follow. Best to keep her under the black Angel's wing where he could watch over her. A wry smile twisted his features.

Angel of Music...Prince of Darkness.

What irony that he was the only one who could offer so pure a soul true protection.

"Excellent." He gave a tight smile. "I am pleased we could reach an understanding."

The earl blinked as the Count released him from the compulsion, and the earl dazedly shook his head. "Wh-what was...I don't recall..."

"Why your agreement, sir, that Christine should stay here, under my guard and as my wife, should she accept my proposal to wed."

"Ah, yes. This castle is the best place for her," the earl nodded then frowned. "If she should not accept your offer of marriage, what then shall be done with her?"

The earl's men were out of earshot, on the opposite side of the room and under Gregor's watchful eye, the barrel of the pistol steady in his hand. Yet ever attuned to the faintest sound, Erik was aware that another had heard their low conversation.

He turned to see Christine, who stood motionless in the doorway. She regarded them with a bold little lift of her slender carriage, though a glimmer of apprehension swam in her dark eyes.

"You need not concern yourself with my welfare," she said quietly to the earl, then looked at Erik. "I have decided…" She inhaled a deep breath. "I accept your offer, my lord."

xXx

A cold rain struck the glass, beating a symphonic rhythm that was to be Christine's wedding accompaniment, though no anticipatory march down a narrow church aisle followed. There was no traditional wedding dress. No bright nosegay of roses or lilies. No fairy-like veil. There was, however, a priest, wounded and inert among the cushions of the bed, but stable of mind and able to conduct the short, private ceremony in the guest bedchamber, using the small prayer book he'd kept in his frock coat.

The Count – no, _Erik_ – now minutes shy of becoming her husband – had offered a stilted apology that they could not marry in the castle chapel. His explanation that the priest could never manage the staircase and should remain bedridden made sense. However, in light of the situation, it hardly mattered what chamber was selected. Christine was giving herself over to a veritable stranger, an enigma undiscovered, no matter what brief intimacies they once shared. She could not help court some disquietude to proceed with such a titanic venture, but oddly felt no bold, cautionary misgivings.

He did not require her love, though certainly she did not _love_ him. She was as yet uncertain what feelings she could describe toward this man – intrigue and captivation, certainly, but unease and doubt had their place in her heart too.

If truth be told, she had not yet arrived to a firm decision when she entered the main parlor, but upon overhearing the tail end of their conversation, a destiny still vague suddenly shone clear-cut with diamond brilliance. She had been stunned to note the earl so readily agree with every one of the Count's demands, but what truly astonished was to hear her accidental savior speak with such conviction on her behalf that he _wanted_ her to remain there, under his mantle of protection, in direct counterpoint to his near-hostile words of last night …

What had changed?

In all her years, Christine never felt so protected as she did when with the formidable Count, such faith in him stronger than those qualms of enthralled confusion that daily bound her with regard to his nature. His eyes sometimes threatened, burning in the midst of that strange black mask, but his voice could be gentle, as gentle as the touch of his hands…

He would never harm her; of that she was certain, and she had his word he would not make demands, which she believed genuine.

She still scarcely knew him, but - who was _she_? She no longer recognized herself in that she felt little of the reluctance that should accompany such a monumental decision. Since she arrived to this wild, forsaken shire, she found herself doing things she normally would never consider, thinking things she would never once have imagined. Change was inevitable with the passage of time; mindsets altered. Girlhood sentiments that once dearly mattered lost their grip in the present reality. Perhaps that best described her current frame of mind.

Perhaps she simply chose what professed to be the lesser of two evils...

Or perhaps madness was indeed an inherent trait passed down through generations of Van Helsings.

Her answer to him had come almost without realization, but once she heard the acceptance spill from her lips, she knew it to be valid. Still, the culmination of events was happening with a speed that left her wanting for breath. The Count had earlier taken her aside and privately advised they not delay, lest the earl again attempt to interfere, and Christine agreed, seeing that she had no sane choice. The priest waived the usual bans, as she was an orphan alone in the world, with her sole guardian the unfeeling man who stood between his two dour henchmen. These three their only witnesses in this strange, impromptu ceremony.

In a weak voice barely at voluble level, the priest spoke of promises and honor and forever. At the continued utterance of such weighty precepts, Christine's unease mushroomed, so that she nearly whispered out a plea to end the proceedings. Barely shifting her head, she glanced toward the Count. His somber attention was on the reclining priest, his expression beneath the mask giving nothing away. As though sensing her need for some inkling of reassurance, eyes like a candle's glow flickered in her direction, bearing no threat.

She brought her anxious focus from one socket hole of his gleaming black mask to the other before he offered a faint nod, meant to soothe. By her hip, she felt the surreptitious brush of his fingertips against her palm and swiftly clung to his cold hand like a lifeline.

The chill of his flesh soothed her, and for the remainder of the ceremony, they stood motionless and stiff, with her hand desperately grasping his. Five long digits and an equally icy palm were the anchor that kept her grounded and silent throughout the droning words that lost all meaning through a mind that had abandoned her in a fog. No matter her dazed state, she did not enter into this commitment lightly and understood all of what was true: Marriage to this man for one year, as per their arrangement. To escape a living death in an unwanted union. To know protection. To learn to sing with the excellence Little Lotte had desired… again and again, these served as a reminder to keep her calm and maintain her fragile bravado. It would be worth the sacrifice, she convinced herself. To gain unspoken dreams of acclaim, she was willing to put to death girlhood fantasies of love.

Once the priest concluded the rite, he looked expectantly toward the Count. Christine turned tentatively to face him, thinking he might kiss her as custom proposed. For a moment, he seemed to consider, then took her hand still held in his and lifted it to his lips.

"Countess."

The new title so quietly uttered stole her breath, but the whispered touch of his cool lips against her fingers brought a flush of warmth to blossom and spread beneath her skin.

Once he released her hand, he looked at the priest. "I assume that you require sustenance. I will ask Gregor to see to bringing you a meal." He shifted his attention to the earl. " _You_ should return to Montmarte without delay. You are no longer welcome here."

The earl appeared a bit flustered. "Our agreement…"

The Count's scowl came dark. "Our agreement stands. I _never_ renege on my word; bear that in mind. We will discuss the details downstairs while your men ready the horses for your departure."

Left behind with the priest and feeling a bit adrift, Christine watched her new bridegroom leave with her former guardian and his men. She stared at the empty entryway a moment before looking back to the priest. His kind regard altered into worried confusion.

"Is anything the matter, child?"

"No, no, of course not. Is there anything I can do for you, Father? Perhaps get a message to someone telling of your presence here?"

He wearily nodded. "Mrs. Polliner - she cooks for me and cleans the vicarage. She is likely to wonder why I haven't yet returned."

"I will see that she gets the message."

"I am grateful, my lady."

 _My lady._ His response stunned Christine, to realize he addressed _her._ It was inconceivable. She was now a woman of title, a _noble_ , and wasn't quite sure how she felt about that. Astonished by the prospect, anxious for the same reason. What did she know about running a castle or being a countess? _His_ Countess? Even if only for a year, she would certainly be expected to perform some type of duties ...

"If you should ever wish to talk," he added when she remained silent a prolonged time, "I've been told I am a trustworthy confidant."

His tongue-in-cheek remark made her smile. "There _is_ something I have wondered …about last night. Have you any recollection of what happened yet?"

"I fell off my horse. Poor beast must have slipped in the mud and broken her leg. A shame she had to be put down."

Christine regarded him in mild confusion. "That is _all_ you remember?" How could he have forgotten so much? She had heard that a bad knock to the head could jar a person's memories for a short spell, but eventually they did remember. At least those she had heard about.

"Was there something else I should know?"

He seemed genuinely puzzled, and she shook her head. "No, it's nothing. You should get some rest. I'll check in on you again later."

He inclined his head in smiling gratitude and closed his eyes to sleep. He seemed improved, remarkably so for the extent of his injuries, though still clearly exhausted, and she brushed aside further concern.

Once she descended the stairs to the first floor, she found the main rooms empty. Thankfully, the earl and his men appeared to have left, but where had the Count disappeared to?

Christine ducked her head into the music room, not finding him there either. She held back from exploring further down the corridor into rooms not yet visited then called herself foolish and cowardly. She was mistress of this castle now, a fact still incomprehensible to sane thought, and she had every right to look into any chamber, as the Count had also given his permission…those not locked.

She moved past the main stairwell and down an unknown corridor, dimly lit by the glow of few candles, all the doors closed here. She tried the latch of one – locked – and moved to the next. The door gave in with a creak to reveal a small storeroom. She moved to the next door and put her hand to the latch – inhaling a startled yelp and jumping back a step when it moved suddenly toward her.

The Count's manservant emerged like a stooped vulture, with hooked nose, thin lips and baleful eyes rife with accusation. Again she noted his lanky limbs and great height for his advanced years, nearly standing as tall as the Count. The servant's brows were dark and bushy, while hair of a white ash color grew to his shoulders, giving him a wild, bohemian look, matched by the expression on his craggy, lined face. By appearance alone, he was the perfect aide for the Count, though the manner in which he regarded Christine gave her a decided chill. He did not possess the strength of a man twice his junior, but had proven no less intimidating by his display with weaponry in the throne room, the pistol now thankfully absent. Not that she suspected the Count even needed a guard; his _mere presence_ exuded power and intimidation without his need to move a muscle.

"Hello," she tried, wishing her voice didn't tremble so, "I understand you are Gregor. I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

Her smile faltered when his gaze remained just a sharp, his response just as silent. Evidently he wasn't in favor of his master's new wife. Awkwardly she smoothed her hands down her skirts and lightly cleared her throat.

"Would you happen to know where the Count is?"

"The master is busy for the remainder of the day." His voice was as harsh and forbidding as his demeanor. "He expressed word that he will see you tonight."

"Oh, I see."

Tremors of relief not to immediately face her new bridegroom in this bizarre new arrangement they had fashioned came weaker than the surprising surge of disappointment that he had abandoned her on their wedding day. She called foolish any unwanted feeling of rejection and held her head high.

"I was told – that is, the Count told me – that you would drive me into town."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he inclined his head in a curt nod.

"Yes, well, I should like to go to the village, please." She tried to attain an air of polite authority, a role with which she was wholly unfamiliar; his vulture-eyes never strayed from her face and did nothing to plump her confidence. "I should also like to go to Montmarte to retrieve the rest of my things." Now that she would remain in Berwickshire, she would need a change of clothing soon, especially after last night's wet romp through the forest.

"That will not be necessary."

"Pardon?" she blinked at his unexpected reply.

"The Master has made known that you are to acquire all you need in the village, if you wish it."

"Oh, alright then." She felt a bit stunned that the Count had arranged it without telling her first, that he would even recognize her need. "If you will please take a tray to Father Kiley, we will leave directly afterward."

He lifted his head in arrogance. "I have my instructions."

He walked past her and she turned to watch him withdraw a ring of keys and approach the locked door. He sent her a dark look of warning, as if in command not to follow, then disappeared behind the door he securely shut. Exhaling a nervous breath, she sensed her time as mistress of this ancient fortress would provide the greatest challenge yet faced.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Ah, they are wed - the Count and his Countess. ;-) - and so, what horrors and delights now bide for the mystifying Phantom and his new bride... we shall soon see... (muahaha)**


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